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CLAYTON’S RANGERS. 



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LIEUT. BARTON AND CAPTAIN GARDNER. p age 57. 














CLAYTON'S RANGERS ; 

OR, 


The Quaker 


Partisans. 


A STORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 

if 4r Afi 

<hr . r I | juCa, 
l! ' 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 


‘b 


'■ u LP \ 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1876 . 


* ^ 




'y 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern 
District of Pennsylvania. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 






















































































































































































































































































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THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


CHAPTER I. 

There are not many scenes this side the “Delect- 
able Mountains,” more beautiful, after their kind, than 
the Brandywine Hills. There is nothing grand, nor 
sublime, nor magnificent, in them; there is no stern or 
rugged feature, except one of which I will speak in a 
moment, to be seen, as far as the eye can reach, in that 
part of them among which my story begins ; but the 
hills roll back in long gentle slopes east and west from 
the little river; low, exquisitely rounded hills, rolling 
back and back like waves, with sweet valleys sleeping 
between them, through which flow small streams, 
sometimes silently, sometimes gurgling over stones 
and against sharp turns in the banks, into the river. 
It is the beauty of tenderness and repose. Soft shad- 
ows slumber on the hill-sides and in the valleys, and 
nestle among the masses of foliage in the woods which 
still overspread the country. 

In the cool gray of the dawning, in the shimmering 
blaze of a July noon, bathed in the golden splendor of 
the sunset, or sweeping their wavy outline in strong, 
sharp relief against the night sky, they are alike beau- 
1 * ( 5 ) 


6 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


tiful with a solemn, tender loveliness, the recollection 
of which never fades out from the hearts of any who 
have lived among them. 

The one rugged feature of which I spoke — and that 
is not visible at a distance which takes in the whole 
sweep of the landscape — is a rock which stands upon 
the right bank of the river, about two or three hundred 
yards below the bridge over which the Strasburg road 
crosses it, and about two miles from the borough of 
West Chester, now one of the prettiest towns in East- 
ern Pennsylvania, — though at the time of which I am 
writing, consisting as it did of a single tavern, known 
then, and indeed ever since, with the exception of a year 
or two during which it was occupied as a girls’ board- 
ing-school, as “The Turk’s Head,” its beauty may be 
said to have been in an undeveloped and inchoate state. 
There may have been a blacksmith’s shop and a coun- 
try store, also ; I presume those concomitants were not 
wanting; but, having no historical evidence thereof, 
and wishing to be as exact as circumstances will admit 
of, I had rather not say positively. 

This rock rises perpendicularly from the water’s 
edge to the height of about forty or fifty feet, having 
near its southern extremity a mass of stone projecting 
some six or eight feet from the rough, craggy face, 
over the water, at perhaps three or four feet above the 
ordinary surface-level, and perfectly flat on the under 
side, thus forming a capital shade from sun or shelter 
from rain for that most patient class of men yclept 
anglers; albeit the stream at this day furnishes but 
little to reward their patience. 

On the south side the rock, covered there, as indeed 
everywhere except on its perpendicular face, with green 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


1 


sod, rises with a steep ascent to the top, while back- 
wards it slopes by a gradual descent to the level of the 
country behind ; from the top northward runs a rather 
steep bluff for some distance up the stream, and paral- 
lel with its course. 

At present there are a few trees scattered over its 
sides and top, while a number of others, some large 
and some small, grow in front of it, on the strip of 
ground between it and the stream which flows placidly 
on below. At the summit, the ground is covered with 
scattered boulders, some loose, but mostly only crop- 
ping out above the surface, which, near the front, is 
much broken ; the highest part humps up, as it were, 
into a ridge, leaving a rugged, irregular terrace on each 
side, that on the south falling away rather precipi- 
tately, and that on the north stretching away up the 
stream, as I have mentioned, in a steep bluff, almost 
resembling an artificial embankment. 

The ridge above is not more than thirty or forty feet 
wide where it begins, running back, and gradually 
widening as it goes, to the distance of perhaps five hun- 
dred yards, before it is lost in the. level of the ground 
in the rear; rough near the face of the rock, but grow- 
ing smoother as you recede from it. 

Below the rock, for some distance down the stream, 
and extending two or three hundred yards on each 
side of it, the ground consists of low and level meadow, 
rich and fertile, as indeed is all the land in this part of 
Chester county. 

About a quarter of a mile before you 'reach the 
bridge, which steps on its solid stone piers across the 
Brandywine, a road turns off to the left from the Stras- 
burg road, nearly at right angles with it, and runs 


8 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


parallel with the stream at about the same distance, 
till it reaches what is known as the “ Factory” (which 
for a good many years went periodically into a state of 
suspension for want of funds), where the stream sweeps 
to the eastward, so as to bring itself close to the road ; 
thence they run cosily side by side to Jefferis’ Ford, and 
thence, the road, leaving the stream, goes across the 
country, past Strode’s Mill (both of them points con- 
nected with Chester county’s share of Revolutionary 
history), to Birmingham, which is as far as we need to 
follow it. On the east side of this road, about two or 
three hundred yards below the main road, and in full 
view of the rock, stands a quaint little old brick house 
with a steep roof, which, though modernized in some 
respects, still retains one of the narrow windows, glazed 
with small lozenge-shaped lights set in lead, which 
was brought from England when the house was built. 
Nobody knows how old the quaint little building is, 
nor who built it; but there it stands, facing the old 
rock, a relic of the good old times, the only thing there, 
with which man’s meddlesome hands have had any- 
thing to do, that saw the time when Chester county 
was part of “ ye pprovince of Pennsilvania,” — at whose 
door, for aught I know, William Penn himself may 
have sat on some summer evening, with his plain cocked 
hat laid off to allow the cool evening wind to play on 
his brow, while he looked abroad through the curling 
smoke of his pipe over the goodly land which the mu- 
nificent Charles II. had allowed him to buy from the 
red owners of the soil and thus cancel a bad debt the 
monarch owed to William Penn the elder. 

Yerily, William the younger found it an exceedingly 
bad debt before he had done with it. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


9 


At the door of this house, on a pleasant evening in 
the beginning of July, 17 7 7, resting after his day of 
labor, sat an old man, quietly enjoying the evening air, 
as it came cool and moist from the creek, laden with 
the fresh smell of the sedge upon its banks. The sun 
was sinking behind the trees, and the mist was begin- 
ning to settle down along the course of the stream, 
while the light grew fainter and fainter as the night 
came on. 

The old man had been sitting silently, bis eyes wan- 
dering carelessly over the scene before him, when some- 
thing in the by-road on which the house stood, attracted 
his attention. Turning partly around in his chair to- 
ward the door, he called, — 

“ Jenny !” 

“ What is it, father?” answered a low, very pleasant 
voice within the house. 

“ Come here and tell me what this is cornin’ up the 
mill-road. I can’t make out whether it’s a steer, or a 
man on horseback.” 

“Why, father, it’s a man on horseback,” said Jenny, 
coming beside him. “ I can see him plain.” 

“Yes, yes ; young eyes are better than old ones ! to 
me it looks like nothing but a big black spot movin’ 
along. Can thee see who it is ?” 

“No,” said Jenny, “ I can’t make out yet: if I do 
know him, it’s too dark, and he’s most too far off.” 

Jenny stood by her father, scrutinizing the stranger, 
until the latter, having arrived opposite the door, reined 
up his horse and stopped, looking inquiringly for a few 
moments alternately at the old man and at Jenny, after 
the usual greetings had been exchanged. 

He was a well-built man, about five feet ten inches 


10 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


high, rather slender, but muscular-looking, and clad in 
an ordinary citizen’s dress. At last he spoke. 

“ Can you tell me where a person lives named 
Thomas Sanford, somewhere in this neighborhood ?” 

“That’s my name,” said the farmer. “ What does 
thee wish with me ?” 

“ You are the man I’m looking for, then,” said the 
stranger, with a frank smile. “I judge so from what 
you say, as well as from the location, which answers 
the description pretty well, and — and — from some other 
things which Frank told me,” he added, with a glance 
at Jenny. 

“Frank I” exclaimed the old man ; “ then thee comes 
from — where does thee come from, and who is the 
Frank thee speaks of?” 

“ I come from Philadelphia,” said the stranger, “ and 
the Frank I speak of is the man to whom you lent this 
purse, with instructions to send it back by the right 
man” — laying a slight emphasis on the last words, and 
holding out an ordinary wallet purse with very gaunt- 
looking sides. 

“ Thee comes from Frank Lightfoot, sure,” said the 
old man, getting up and taking the purse from the 
other’s hand ; “he’s sent back the purse leaner than 
he took it ; but light down, light down, and come into 
the house; thee’s hungry, and so’s thy beast, I know. 
Jenny, get something for this friend to eat — I forgot to 
ask thee thy name ” 

“Bettle — William Bettle,” answered the other, dis- 
mounting ; “ but it would be as well, for several reasons, 
that my name should be kept as quiet as possible. Just 
call me William ; nothing more.” 

“ I understand,” said the old farmer ; “ calling names 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


11 


does no good. Here, Mike,” he added, addressing the 
hired man, who had just made his appearance ; “ take 
this critter to the stable and give him a feed and some 
water, and rub him down, and put some straw in the 
stall for him.” 

“ Yis, sur,” said Mike, springing into the saddle with 
a “whoop, git ’lang now !” and kicking his heels into 
the spirited beast’s sides as he lit. 

Showing off one’s agility on strange horses is some- 
times unsatisfactory in its results. The fiery animal, 
as he felt the heels touch him, sprang from all fours 
into the air, whirling half round as he did so, and sud- 
denly humping his back in a way that shot Mike up as 
if from a spring, and landed him in a very crumpled 
state in the fence-corner on the opposite side of the 
road, while the horse stood looking at him as quietly 
as if nothing had occurred. 

“ Roland don’t fancy strange heels in his ribs,” said 
Bettle, dryly, as he crossed the road to the assist- 
ance of the discomfited Mike. “Any bones cracked, 
neck put out of joint, or any little matter of the 
kind ?” 

Mike slowly raised himself, feeling his limbs, and 
carefully moving his joints one by one, looking first at 
the horse and then at his questioner, in a kind of ireful 
bewilderment, without speaking. 

“All right, I see,” said Bettle; “nothing’s out of 
joint but the nose, this time. I think you’ll find it quite 
as comfortable an arrangement to lead him to the 
stable:” which Mike immediately did, with a rather 
crest-fallen air. 

“That’s rather a ‘ree’ critter o’ thine,” said the 
farmer, as Mike led the horse away. “As Mike’s not 


12 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


hurt, I’m not sorry to see his comb cut a little, he’s so 
fond of braggin’ about his ridin’, and sayin’ there are no 
horses here fit fora ‘gintleman’ to ride.” 

“Roland is an Irish hunter, and therefore a sort of 
cousin to Mike : he’d have been more neighborly if 
Mike hadn’t introduced himself quite so uproariously. 
But what’s up now?” exclaimed Bettle, suddenly, as a 
fierce, ringing neigh, followed by the sound of a lash or 
two, then a sudden rush of the horse and a crashing 
blow of his feet upon what seemed to be some boards, 
came from the barnyard. “The fool i beating himl 
He’d better have grappled with a mad bull.” 

So saying, Bettle rushed to the stable just in time 
to see Mike standing behind the pump, his teeth chat- 
tering and hair standing on end with fright, while the 
horse, with his ears laid flat back upon his head, and 
the foam flying from his distended nostrils, leaped 
open-mouthed at him, right over the well-curb and the 
trough that stood upon it, snapping at him savagely as 
he passed. 

“Och, git out, ye divil !” exclaimed Mike, dodging 
around the pump again, so as to have it between him 
and the furious brute ; “ ye’re no horse at all ; ye’re ” 

“ Run, you fool ! Run for your life!” shouted Bet- 
tle, darting into the yard. “ The horse’ll kill you ! 
Run, I say !” 

It was high time ; for the beast, finding that he had 
missed his aim, had turned again, after making a short 
circuit, and was crouching for another spring. 

Mike ran with a speed he never accomplished before 
nor afterward, never stopping till he was safe in the 
house, with the door bolted. 

As he shot past Bettle, who was standing about 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


IB 


half-way between the gate and the pump, the horse 
came flying over the well-curb again, after him ; but, as 
he lit, Bettle, who had stepped directly in his track, 
threw up his hand, saying, calmly enough, “Halt! 
Roland and the horse, in the heat of his mad fury, 
stopped as if he had been struck dead. 

“ Thee has the beast under tolerable good command, ” 
said Thomas Sanford, from the gate, whither he had 
hurried, though not quite so fast as the younger man. 
“ I don’t think a farm-horse would have understood that 
1 Halt !’ as well #s thine did. I reckon he’s smelt pow- 
der before now ; and there’s something about thee that 
looks as if it would be more at home under the blue 
coat than the drab one thee wears.” 

Bettle smiled, and answered, — 

“ I suppose there’s no use in denying that I’m a 
soldier, or that Roland has been trained to something 
besides road-service. I’ll tell you more when we get 
to the house. In the mean while, I had better take him 
to the stable myself, as I don’t suppose Mike will want 
to have much to do with him. Where shall I put 
him ?” 

The farmer accompanied Bettle to the stable, the 
horse following as quietly as a dog, and indicated the 
place he was to occupy, where Roland in a few min- 
utes was standing at his ease, munching the fragrant 
hay with which the rack was filled. 

They then returned to the house, where they found 
supper ready, with Jenny at the head of the table, her 
mother sitting at a little distance from it, knitting, and 
Mike in the chimney-corner, recovering, as well as he 
could, from his fright. He was not naturally timid, but 
he had never come in contact with anything in the 
' 2 


14 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


shape of horseflesh possessing the peculiar traits of 
character with which Roland had so unceremoniously 
made him acquainted; and let me tell you, you who 
are incredulous, that there is no more dangerous wild 
beast on this earth than an enraged stallion ; and a 
braver man than Mike ever claimed to be might well 
be excused for letting his discretion get the better of 
his valor, under the circumstances. Besides, he was 
firmly persuaded in his own mind that the horse was 
possessed of an evil spirit, and, as soon as the two men 
entered, he exclaimed, eagerly, — 

“ Did ye ixercise the divil out iv ’im, misther? Sure 
I niver was so frekened in my life.” 

•“ There was no devil in him to be exorcised,” said 
Bettle, quietly; “but he don’t like the whip, and I’d 
recommend you not to try it on him again.” 

“Sure an’ I’m not goin’ within rache iv his ugly 
mouth agin, nor thim hales o’ his, aither. Bedad, whin 
he sthruck at me wid his fore faate, they splut the well- 
curb like an axe.” So saying, Mike, whose bones 
were a little sore, betook himself to bed. 

The supper was soon over, Bettle being the sole per- 
former, as the family had finished their meal an hour 
before. He then entered into an explanation of the 
meaning of his visit. 

Frank Lightfoot, he said, had directed him to Thomas 
Sanford, as a stanch Whig, and one who could tell 
him where to find fifteen or twenty bold, active young 
farmers of Frank’s acquaintance, who were ready and 
willing to fight, if they had anybody to lead them, Did 
Thomas know of such, and would he give him the as- 
sistance Frank had promised ? 

“ Yes,” answered the farmer, “I do know, I s’pose, 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


15 


that many idle young vagabonds who are ready for 
anything but useful work. But it was strange for 
Frank to send thee to me on such an errand. He knew 
well enough, as I s’pose thee knows by this time, that 
I am a Friend, and ” 

“So am I,” said Bettle, quietly, “and have had 
none but Friends in my family since William Penn 
came over.” 

“And a soldier?” said Mrs. Sanford, who was a 
stout, comfortable, motherly old lady, such as most 
farmers’ wives become. “ How’s that ? Haven’t they 
dealt with thee?” 

“No,” answered Bettle, smiling; “I’m in good 
standing in the meeting to which I belong. Did you 
never hear of the Free Quakers ?” 

“Yes,” said Thomas, “I have heard tell of them, 
but never knew much about them. I s’pose thee’s one, 
of course ?” • 

“ Yes, I am.” 

“Have they all dropped the plain language as 
completely as thee has?” inquired Jenny, mis- 
chievously. 

“Well, no,” answered Bettle, coloring slightly; 
“the fact is, I’ve been so much in bad company, 
as regards that, for a year or two past, that I’ve 
got out of the way of using it, almost without know- 
ing it.” 

“ Never mind that, Jenny,” said her father ; “ I want 
Friend William to tell me more about the people called 
Free Quakers.” 

Bettle proceeded to give the history of the schism, 
in substance as I shall describe it in a future chapter, 
having no room for it here, and contrived to interest 


16 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


the old farmer so much, and so far to enlist his sym- 
pathy in the movement, as to induce him to say, — 

“Well, if thee chooses to go among the boys and 
talk the matter over with them, and Mike chooses to 
tell thee where to find them, I don’t know as I can help 
it, though I may not feel exactly free to tell thee my- 
self. It’s hard to know exactly what is right. I’ll 
tell thee this much, though : most of the people in this 
region are Friends and Loyalists — what thee calls 
Tories — and I must keep quiet on the subject, if pos- 
sible, so as to keep out of trouble with the meeting 
and with them. Thee will stay here, as a visitor, as 
long as thee sees proper, and I shall ask no questions 
about matters that are none of my business. Thee 
understands?” 

“ Perfectly,” said Bettle ; “ and I’ll take care not to 
compromise thee.” 

He was gradually drifting back into his old style of 
language, partly from the force of present associations, 
and partly because he had an idea that it would please 
J enny better. 

And this reminds me that I have omitted a very 
important matter, that should have been attended to 
earlier. Here have I been talking, through the larger 
part of a chapter, about a young lady, without giving 
any idea of her personal appearance. 

The fact is, there was nothing very extraordinary 
about her to describe. She was not one of your im- 
possible beauties, but she had a face that was pretty 
enough, though not handsome in what I conceive to 
be the strict acceptation of the term ; that is, she had 
no features that were aristocratic or classical (what- 
ever those terms may mean), but simply a s^eet, 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. It 

rather childish face, shaded by chestnut-brown hair, 
which would run waving across her forehead and 
cheeks in spite of all her efforts to coax and smooth 
such vanities out of it. Her complexion was of a 
clear red and. white, which contrasted well with large 
hazel eyes, that in repose had something in kind, 
though not in degree, of the sad, dreamy look of Faed’s 
Evangeline, if you ever saw the engraving ; it is the 
most touching face, in its depth of desolate woe, that 
ever artist’s pencil drew or engraver’s burin traced. 

I love to see a broad, well-opened eye, in either man 
or woman ; one into which your own glance sinks, as 
it were, sounding unfathomable depths of clear light. 
When Jenny was aroused by conversation, or her at- 
tention was attracted in any way, she had a frank, 
earnest look, straight and steady, into the eyes of the * 
one to whom she spoke or listened ; an expression of 
simple, straightforward sincerity and faith, that showed 
a nature utterly free from guile in itself or suspicion 
of it in others. There was something in this look of 
hers, joined to her low, clear voice, that attracted 
Bettle as he had never been attracted before. 

He w T as a good-looking fellow himself, moderately 
tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with well- 
developed muscles, and a rather small head, surmounted 
by light curly hair, and with bluish-gray eyes, in which, 
though their expression usually was mild and quiet, 
there shone now and then, as he talked of the war 
and its events, a light, quick and flashing, that showed 
that there was a world of reckless daring beneath that* 
quiet exterior. He was about twenty-three years of 
age, and had satisfied himself, or rather the thought 
had slid into his mind almost insensibly, that Jenny 
2 * 


18 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


must be somewhere from eighteen to twenty. I am 
afraid that something else was sliding into his mind — 
or his heart — along with this calculation, quite as in- 
sensibly, and taking a good deal firmer hold of it. At 
any rate, unconsciously to himself, his conversation 
was soon directed almost exclusively to Jenny, who 
sat opposite him, looking into his eyes with that earn- 
est look I have mentioned, which seemed, without any 
design on her part, to read what he was saying, even 
before he had uttered the words. 

What feelings occupied her mind I will not under- 
take to say, or whether any but the curiosity and in- 
terest a maiden might naturally feel in listening to 
and conversing with a young and good-looking stranger 
who was talking upon subjects in which she felt a great 
interest. 

Women do not fall in love as promptly as men do. 
Sophisticated or unsophisticated, trained in the menage 
of society or growing up artless and unsuspecting in 
the seclusion of home, they keep a better guard upon 
their feelings, acting unconsciously from the instinct 
of danger, — a faculty entirely apart from reasoning or 
judgment, working independently of both, and always 
on the alert in the weak when thrown into collision 
■with natures stronger and more aggressive than their 
own. 

It was so with Jenny Sanford. She was interested 
in Bettle ; she could not help admiring him, and con- 
trasting the gentleness and courtesy of his manner, 
not only toward herself, but toward hei* aged parents, 
with the hearty but' frequently uncouth demonstra- 
tions of the young men of the neighborhood, who, up 
to this time, were all she had seen of male society. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. *19 

Women do not like feminine men, though they fre- 
quently make them useful ; birt they do like gentle 
ones, who treat them as reasonable creatures, and not 
as children or playthings; who show them a manly 
deference and respect, instead of obsequious servility 
on the one hand, or a coarse assumption of supe- 
riority on the other. 

I said that Jenny was interested in Bettle; and, 
after the group had separated for the night, she found 
herself recalling his look and voice with a vague, in- 
definite kind of pleasure, such as she had never before 
experienced, and which she neither understood nor 
thought of analyzing. Even had she possessed expe- 
rience enough to do so, she would at this stage, with 
her Quaker feelings, and principles even more power- 
ful, have shrunk from the thought of becoming at- 
tached to a soldier, and one whose sole errand in the 
neighborhood was to procure men for a purpose which 
she had always been taught to abhor as unrighteous 
and abominable. 

No, Jenny was not in love, yet; but the soldier had 
a share in her dreams, nevertheless. 


CHAPTER II. 


The family were stirring next morning by sunrise ; 
a good old country fashion, which we in the city have 
pretty thoroughly got rid of. In fact, here, unless 
your business calls you up early, — and when you have 
enough of it for that in the city it is very apt to keep 
you up late too, thus cutting off your sleep at both 
ends, — I really can’t see any sound reason for getting 
up much before breakfast- time. 

In the country, had we been with Bettle, as he 
walked slowly along the road toward a little bridge 
which he had crossed the evening before, just before 
reaching the house, we might have seen what he did : 
the thin morning clouds floating tranquilly over the 
horizon, in the glowing light, golden-edged below and 
rose-tinted above, relieved against the pale blue of the 
eastern sky; the wide sky itself, with no bound but 
the distant horizon, to which his gaze traveled over 
rolling hills, crowned with solemn old woods; over 
quiet valleys, dotted with trees in little groves, or 
standing in lonely majesty; over the calmly flowing 
Brandywine and its tributary streams, flashing where 
the rising light glanced from them, like mirrors held 
toward the sun. We might have seen old Deborah’s 
Rock, with its seamed and rugged face all aglow with 
the flood of sunlight which poured directly upon it, 
lighting up even the dusk and gloom beneath the pent- 
( 20 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


21 


house crag that projected over the water from its foot. 
We might have heard the wild birds singing by the 
thousand among the orchard-trees, in the chestnut 
groves, and the bushes which fringed the banks of the 
little river; all warbling at once, each in his own time 
and at his own pitch, but all, somehow, blending in a 
wonderful harmony ; and the chattering of the black- 
birds from the willows that fringed the run, on whose 
edge he stood listening to the musical murmur of the 
water; while from the topmost sprig of the solitary 
hickory-tree, where he sat with his head knowingly 
slewed half around, watching Bettle’s motions out of 
one bright eye, the crow shouted hoarsely his uncouth 
welcome to the sunrise ; from the meadow below rose 
the lark’s long, liquid whistle, and from every farm 
the cock’s harsh, rasping call. 

If we get up by sunrise in the city, what have we ? 
The sun does not rise on the city at all. He only gets 
up from behind the houses or the end of the long street, 
a mile or two off. We have no crisp, dewy air full of 
the fresh, sweet scent of new-mown hay and clover- 
blossoms; but, instead, a smoky atmosphere, with a 
chilly dampness, impregnated with villainous coal-gas, 
and heavy with a vague, sooty smell, as though it had 
been cooked over-night and been slightly scorched in 
the process. 

For the song of birds, the lowing of cattle, and the 
booming of the musical cow-bells, we have the rum- 
bling of bakers’ carts, the rattling of milk- and market- 
wagons over the cobble-stones, and the rumble of 
street-cars, enlivened by the infernal howl of the 
factory steam-whistles pealing and echoing all around. 
Decidedly, getting up early in the city, merely for the 


22 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


sake of getting up, don’t pay; and that, after all, 
where business is king, is the ultimatum in all ques- 
tions. 

Bettle sat upon the rail of the bridge, watching the 
glancing water as it shot away beneath him, and 
abandoned himself passively to the influence of the 
scene around him. Many thoughts passed through 
his mind. Old recollections of childhood crowded 
back upon him, some quaint and grotesque, bringing 
a faint smile upon his face as they trooped fantastic- 
ally before him ; some tender and solemn, full of that 
indefinite sadness which is not sorrow nor regret, but 
resembles them only 

“As the mist resembles rain.” 

In all these thoughts, Jenny Sanford somehow was 
present in some incomprehensible, though seemingly 
natural, connection. From some power of association 
and sympathy, he felt as though he had always known 
her. She was the embodiment of many a boyish vision 
and romantic day-dream. 

She it was, he knew now, whom, under Protean shapes, 
he had defended and saved in all manner of imminent 
perils, in his dreams. She it was whom he had res- 
cued, single-handed, from a troop of banditti, in a hor- 
rible, dark, lonely forest — whom he had carried from 
the burning house, where the fire was raging beneath 
him, and the charred beams bent and cracked beneath 
his tread, and the reeling walls gaped open, and the 
red flame licked out through the fissures as he sprang 
over the fallen door into the street and bore her off 
triumphantly amid the clanking of the engines and 
the shouts of the toiling firemen. She it was for 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


23 


whose sake At this moment his reveries were cut 

short by the horn blowing for breakfast. The sound 
recalled him at once from the delicious dream-land in 
which he had been wandering, and he walked slowly 
back to the house, where he found the meal prepared 
and the family seated at the table, including Mike, 
who had pretty well recovered from his last evening’s 
fright, and two young men, one apparently about his 
own age, the other about sixteen, whom Jenny intro- 
duced as her brothers; explaining their absence the 
evening before by saying that they had been helping 
a neighbor get in his harvest, and had stayed over- 
night. 

Jenny looked as fresh as the morning itself, and 
blushed just a little as Bettle greeted her, for she 
recollected something of her dreams, in which the 
young soldier had figured somewhat prominently. 

Bettle had recovered his faculties, and with them 
his cool ease of manner ; and no one would have sus- 
pected that the frank, off-hand, careless man had in 
his nature the capability of such a reverie as the break- 
fast-horn had roused him from. He talked to the old 
people about the harvest and the prospect of crops, 
told the young men anecdotes of the war and its stir- 
ring incidents, talked with Jenny of the beauty of the 
country around, inquired of Mike concerning his bones, 
and offered to introduce him to Roland, — an offer which 
Mike declined with a grimace, — and, by the time the 
meal was over, had the whole family as completely at 
home with him as though they had known him for 
years. 

After breakfast, he went to the stable and curried 
and rubbed down his horse, — a thing which every 


24 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


American officer in those days was expected to be 
able to do as well as his men, or better, — while the two 
sons stood by, watching with admiration the beauty 
of the animal, and the skill with which his master 
groomed him ; and Mike stood at a more respectful 
distance, eyeing the horse rather nervously, especially 
as the latter, though he stood perfectly still, once or 
twice turned his eyes toward him, and laid his ears 
back. 

“ You had better keep out of his sight for a day or 
two, Mike,” said Bettle ; “ he hasn’t forgotten last 
night’s work yet, and he may attack you some time 
when I’m not near.” 

“Why, what’s the matter with Mike and the beast?” 
inquired Mahlon, the younger son. 

“Oh, nothing much. Mike undertook to lash him 
last evening; Roland didn’t like it altogether, and 
Mike had to run for it,” said Bettle, throwing the 
saddle upon the horse’s back and fastening the girths. 
“ I would like to go to that large rock yonder ; can 
you tell me where I can ford the stream ?” 

“Yes,” said John, the elder brother; “there’s a ford 
where the Lancaster road yonder crosses the creek; 
but Mahlon, here, will go with thee, if thee would 
like company, and show thee wherever thee wants 
to go.” 

“Nothing could be better,” said Bettle, “if you 
would like to go,” turning to Mahlon, who he saw 
was eager to go. 

“ Oh, yes, I’d like to go, right well,” said the boy; 
“ I’m ready for anything ; father says, anything but 
work ; but I’m always ready for that, too, when there’s 
nothing better on hand. Anyhow, I can push John, 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 25 

here, in the wheat-field, if I can’t cut as wide a swath. 
Just wait till I saddle my horse, and we’ll be off*.” 

In a few minutes more Bettle and his companion 
were cantering briskly along the hard, level road, 
which skirts the foot of a steep wooded hill, the long 
shadows capering fantastically before them on its beaten 
surface. 

Entering the stream a rod or two above the point 
where Buffington’s bridge now stretches its solid stone 
bulk across, they reached the other side, stepping on 
shore, not, as now, into a nest of workshops, the rattle 
of whose cranks and wheels, enlivened by the mono- 
tonous “ bumpety-bang ” of a tilt-hammer, scares all 
the peace from the beautiful river, but into the quiet 
road again, which, however, they soon left for a bridle- 
path which led off to the left, through the woods, to- 
ward the rock. 

Leaving their horses at the back of the rock, tied to 
a sapling, the two companions proceeded along the 
slope until they reached the top, where Bettle’s ob- 
servant eye noticed at once the peculiar formation of 
the top, and the facilities for holding it against an 
enemy by posting thirty or forty men among the scat- 
tered rocks and behind the inequalities of the ground; 
also that it commanded a good view of a considerable 
stretch of road to the eastward. 

“ This will do,” said Bettle; “we could hold this 
place against an army. Do the people in the neigfc 
borhood often come up here?” he inquired, turning to 
Mahlon. 

“No,” said the boy; “I don’t think anybody comes 
here once a month. They never come if they can help 
it, and never stay long when they do.” 

3 


26 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

“ Why ?” said Bettle. 

“’Cause they’re afeard of Deborah’s ghost. They 
say it lives under the big rock that sticks out over the 
water.” 

“She must find it rather damp,” said Bettle, quietly. 

The boy glanced at him with a half- quizzical look. 

“Then thee don’t believe in ghosts?” 

“Not much,” said Bettle, coolly. “I’ll wait till I 
see one that I can’t show to be something else. But 
who was tjiis Deborah, and what brings her ghost 
here ?” 

“ Oh, it was in the old times, when the Injins was 
about here ; she jumped off the edge of the rock one 
day, ’cause the fellow she wanted wouldn’t marry 
her, I b’lieve.” 

^Well,” said Bettle, “when I see her, I’ll ask her 
how it happened. Is there any path by which horses 
can be got up here ?” 

“ Not easy, unless you go back and come up the 
ridge ; it’s too steep, and the trees are too thick. But 
what would thee want to bring horses up for? does 
thee think of makin’ a randy voo of the old rock ?” 

“ I want to see if it would do for that,” said Bettle. 
“ If there was any way for horses to travel up and 
down, and no danger of the place being visited, it 
might do for that purpose sometimes. At any rate,” 
he added, half soliloquizing, “it would be a capital 
place to retreat to if we were hard pushed.” 

After a little more examination of the ground, Bettle 
came to the conclusion that it was practicable for 
horses, even, on an -emergency, up the side of the hill, 
though it was a thing to be done only in utter desper- 
ation. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


27 


Descending, they remounted their horses, and rod 
to the house of another farmer, about two miles off, 
where Mahlon assured his companion that he would 
find at least three able-bodied men who were ready to 
enlist. 

“ How do ?” said the farmer, as they rode up to the 
barn, where all hands were busy unloading a hay- 
wagon. “ How do, Mahlon? How’s the folks ? Got 
through hayin’ ?” 

“ Yes,” answered the boy, “ all in the mow.” 

“Who’s this friend with thee?” inquired the old 
man, who, though not a Quaker, either in principle or 
practice, had, from long association, insensibly adopted 
their phraseology. 

Mahlon whispered in the farmer’s ear, when the 
latter, seizing Bettle’s hand, shook it warmly, ex- 
claiming, — 

“ That’s right, that’s right! Thee’s come to the very 
place. I s’pose I’m too old for service, ain’t I? what 
does thee think ?” 

“Not too old to do good service, yet; but ours is 
of a kind I should be sorry to put an old man at. It 
is too rough and helter-skelter a life for any but young 
men who have some spare strength and vitality to 
draw upon.” 

“ Well, niay-be I’d better stay home and look after 
the old woman and the gals, for they’re gettin’ a little 
skeary with all this war news; but I’ve got three 
boys here that I know ’ud ruther be handlin’ a bagnet 
than a pitchfork, or swingin’ a broadsword than a 
scythe.” 

“Are they good riders?” inquired Bettle, glancing 
up at the door of the hay-mow, in which the “ boys ” 


28 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


were busily engaged in tramping down the hay as it 
was thrown in. “ Can they stick on a horse wherever 
they touch him, right side or wrong side up ? We’ll 
have wild riding to do.” 

“I’ll warn’t ’em. I’ll war’nt ’em,” said the old 
man. “They’ve all three ’most growed up on horse- 
back. Boys, come down here ; I want ye.” 

The three young men leaped out of the window 
upon the load, and slid thence to the ground, light, 
active forms, with the broad, square shoulders which a 
life of work gives to men, and gathered around their 
father and Bettle, answering his pleasant “good- 
morning” cordially enough. 

“Now, look here, boys,” said the father; “here’s 
the chance you’ve all been wishing for. This — what 
did thee say was thy name ?” 

“I didn’t say anything was,” said Bettle, smiling; 
“you didn’t give me a chance. My name is William 
Bettle. I am one of the lieutenants of a troop of 
irregular cavalry under the command of Captain Ellis 
Clayton, a worthy member, like myself and a good 
many others of the troop, of the Society of Friends.” 

“A Quaker!” exclaimed father and sons together. 
“A Quaker officer of a Quaker troop! That’s somethin’ 
new. Does Tommy Sanford know that?” added the 
old man. 

“ Yes,” answered Bettle ; and then gave them a 
short description of the separation, as he had done to 
Thomas Sanford. 

“ That’s a fine beast of thine,” said one of the sons. 
“Are all the horses in the troop equal to him?” 

“Not quite; but all that we have are good. We 
couldn’t get along with second-rate horses.” 


TITE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


29 


“The boys have good beasts,” said the farmer; 
“they are all three-parts blooded, and as sure-footed 
and active as cats.” 

“That’s just what we want,” said Bettle. “Now, 
let us understand each other exactly: we want just 
the kind of men I take you to be, — strong, active, fear- 
less, ready for anything, and willing, if they join us 
at all, to join for the war, whether it be long or short. 
For pay, I’m afraid I must promise you more hard 
knocks than hard dollars ; they are a good deal more 
plentiful. So far, all who are in the troop have 
equipped themselves at their own expense, and are 
able and willing to take their chance of pay when they 
can get it. Now, I have been perfectly frank with you. 
What do you say?” 

“ Why, I say,” said the old man, “that I’ll under- 
take to equip ’em, and keep ’em equipped, if they 
can’t do it themselves, just as long as they choose to 
stay ” 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Bettle, “may I calculate 
upon you ?” 

“ We are willin’, if we can go under thy orders,” 
said the eldest brother. 

“ Of course, if you would rather,” said Bettle ; 
“each lieutenant has a division under his separate 
command, though all are subject to the captain’s 
orders. You can come into mine, if you wish, as it 
isn’t full ; but you will have the hardest and most 
dangerous service to perform, along with the rest 
of us.” 

“ That’s just what we’re ready for,” said the brother 
who acted as spokesman. “ I reckon thee won’t find 
us far behind the rest.” 


3 * 


30 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“Very well; I’ll depend upon you,” said Bettle. 
“ Now, if you can persuade any other good, hearty 
fellows — you know about what I want — to join you, 
you can help me as well as your country. But I must 
go ; I have several more I want to see to-day.” 

So saying, Bettle bade them good-morning, and 
cantered away with his young companion, while the 
farmer and his sons stood looking at the light, springy 
movements of Roland, with an admiration which was 
mingled, in the minds of the young men, with a slight 
degree of bewilderment at the suddenness with which 
they found themselves enlisted for a war of very un- 
certain length and sufficiently doubtful result. 

“Well, father, what’s thee think?” inquired one of 
the sons. 

“A Quaker troop of horse, with a Quaker captain. 
Well, I never!” said the old man. “ What do I think ? 
Why, I think the cause that has made that sort of 
fightin’ men is a good one, and must succeed.” 

The men returned to their work for the present, while 
Bettle and Mahlon pursued their journey, visiting a 
number of persons in the course of the day, with 
varying but, on the whole, tolerable success. At any 
rate, he succeeded in getting the promise of two more 
to join the troop, and returned to Thomas Sanford’s 
in the afternoon, pretty well satisfied with his day’s 
work. 

He found it quite refreshing after his warm ride to 
meet Jenny again, looking as fresh as she had done in 
the morning, and with the faintest possible little blush 
upon her face as she asked him “ how many soldiers 
he had caught?” 

“Only five,” he answered, laughing. 


“ If I had a 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


31 


tempting bait, I might have done better; but I have to 
fish with a bare hook.” 

“ How does thee mean?” 

“Only, that I don’t want to deceive anybody and 
be told of it afterward; so I tell them all just what 
they have to expect, and then let them decide.” 

“ That’s right,” said Martha, her mother ; “ I like 
that in thee. But thee’s not going to persuade my 
boys to go, is thee ? I don’t feel as if it would be 
right.” 

“Not on any account, unless thee and ” he 

glanced at Jenny, who was looking eagerly at him, 
“not unless you are all willing.” 

“Oh, no, I can’t spare my boys; thee mustn’t think 
of them ; it would kill me to lose them.” 

“ Many a mother has lost her boys in this sad war, 
Martha,” said the old man, solemnly, “ and many 
another will lose ’em before it’s over. Why should we 
keep back ours if they’re needed for the work?” 

“ It’s no use talking, Tommy,” said she ; “ I can’t 
consent. Thee won’t take them, will thee?” she added, 
imploringly, to Bettle. 

“ Make thyself easy,” said Bettle: “ no word of mine 
shall lead them off ; and if they should go without thy 
free consent, it will be because I can’t persuade them 
to stay at home; I’ve no wish to leave hard thoughts 
or sorrow behind me, where I have been so kindly met 
as I have been here.” 

There was a very eloquent look of gratitude on 
Jenny’s face, as she turned it toward the speaker, 
which said a great deal, though her lips said nothing; 
and perhaps Bettle understood it quite as well. 

This point being disposed of, and Martha’s mind at 


32 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


rest, the evening was spent very much as the previous 
one had been. 

The next morning was a repetition of the one I have 
already described, with the exception of the reverie on 
the bridge, which was not repeated. 

Bettle remained in the neighborhood about two 
weeks; not spending all the time, however, at Thomas 
Sanford’s; old Azariah Woodward, — better known, 
both to himself and his neighbors, as “ ’Riah Wood’r’t,” 
— the farmer who had so unceremoniously turned his 
three sons over to Bettle to be made troopers of, having 
insisted upon keeping him as a guest for several days, 
effectually backing his arguments in favor thereof, at 
the beginning, by coolly locking Roland in the stable 
one afternoon, and sending his man to Sanford’s after 
his rider’s portmanteau. Most evenings, however, 
found Bettle at Sanford’s. He spent the two weeks 
in diligently gathering recruits, and training them in 
the peculiar discipline of the troop, of which- he, as in- 
deed were all the lieutenants, was as perfect a master 
as the captain himself. 

He met all sorts of people in his researches ; Tories, 
with whom he argued good-humoredly, whenever they 
would let him ; though he had felt it incumbent upon 
him, on one occasion, at a raising, where, without any 
special intention of the kind when he began, he found 
himself making a regular speech, to take one of this 
class by the waistband of his breeches and the slack 
of his shirt, and pitch him into the Brandywine, for 
calling him “a bloody cantankerous rebelizin’ varmint.” 
The fellow, who was full twenty pounds heavier than 
himself, and had been the bully of all gatherings of the 
kind, scrambled out of the water, shook himself, and, 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


33 


simply remarking, “Mister, you’re not a bad hand at 
a hyst,” betook himself to another part of the ground, 
amid the uproarious laughter of the crowd. He found 
men who were anxious to enlist, only they didn’t ex- 
actly like that particular kind of service; men who 
made it a simple question of pay; men who were well 
enough satisfied with King George, though they would 
have no objection to this independence if somebody 
else would take the trouble to get it for them ; men 
who were “on the fence;” w T ho “didn’t know ’zactly 
what to say; hadn’t thunk much about it; reckoned 
things ’ud come round about right, anyhow, after bit; 
J ud see ’bout it,” etc. He found, however, in addition 
to those he had procured the first day, half a dozen (of 
whom the ducking-episode at the raising had procured 
him four, on the spot) of just that restless, adventurous 
temperament to which the irregular service he promised 
them was especially adapted. 

He had now eleven able-bodied young men, all well 
mounted — this he made a sine qua non — and armed, 
some with rifles, some with fowling-pieces. 

Satisfied, by this time, that he had possession of all 
the patriotism of the neighborhood, — all that was likely 
to be demonstrative, at least, — he prepared to return to 
Philadelphia with his small force. 

As I said before, he had found himself somehow in 
Jenny Sanford’s company almost every evening; and, 
whatever he may have thought at first, when he was 
about to leave her for an indefinite time he had no 
doubt whatever as to the nature of his feelings. He 
loved Jenny Sanford. There was no mistake about 
it; and he felt pretty well satisfied that she knew it as 

0 


34 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


well as he did. He felt as little doubt that his love 
was frankly and freely returned. 

True, no such word had passed between them ; but 
words are not necessary to an understanding between 
hearts that feel and answer each other’s mute yearn- 
ings for sympathy. 

Sudden! did you say? Love is always sudden, 
lady. I said before that women do not fall in love 
as promptly as men do; but when you first discovered 
that you loved your husband that is, or is to be, I care 
not which, were you not conscious of a feeling in your 
heart that was never there before ? Something new 
and strange, and of a wondrous power, to which you 
had been, up to that moment, a stranger ? 

Well, the day came. The new recruits were waiting 
on the Lancaster road, and Bettle stood with Jenny at 
the gate of the old farm-house to say farewell. His 
voice shook, in spite of himself, and his hand trembled 
as he held Jenny’s in his grasp, and spoke the parting 
word. As he galloped to the great road, and the party 
moved along toward the city, she stood, with the 
family, watching him until her eyes were dim with 
the tears that would come ; and she hurried into th6 
house, and to her own room, to hide them. 


CHAPTER III. 


While Bettlb and his men are on their way to the 
city, I may as well go back, according to promise, to 
give some account of the Free Quakers, and how there 
happened to be such a thing as a Quaker troop, at 
least so far as regarded a good many of its members, 
under a captain and lieutenants all of the same peace- 
ful persuasion. 

Well, in the latter part of “First Month” in the 
year 1775, there was division in the council of Friends, 
and the Yearly Meeting, then in session at Philadel- 
phia, was impeaceful, with a spirit of dissension, and 
wnquiet, with discussions often protracted into the 
night, as to the course the society should take in the 
war that had already begun. 

Most of the members, particularly the elder portion, 
were inclined to oppose the course matters were taking, 
not only in obedience to their abstract peace principles, 
but because they were, in reality, in favor of the estab- 
lished government, believing that, bad as it was, it 
was better than rebellion and the anarchy which, there 
was reason to fear, would follow it. 

At the beginning of the excitement, while the ac- 
tion of the Colonies was confined to respectful petition 
and remonstrance, they had been almost unanimously 
upon their side ; but now, when men were beginning 
to talk boldly of armed resistance, of throwing olf at 

(35) 


36 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS . 


once and forever the authority of the mother-country, 
the case assumed a different aspect. 

The most perplexing part of the business was, that 
the idea of fighting had actually found its way into the 
society itself, and the echoes of the popular voice were 
making themselves heard within the walls of the quiet 
Quaker meeting from the lips of the younger and more 
hot-blooded members, in tones which startled the grave 
conservative elders. 

There was a most unmistakable disposition on the 
part of some of these younger men to side with the 
stirring proclamation which had been recently issued 
by the Convention ; and a lamentable want of reverence 
for the principles laid down in the “ Discipline” was 
manifested in the remarks which they took upon them- 
selves to make concerning the duty of “ Friends” in 
the present crisis. The Discipline, however, prevailed, 
and on the 24th of the same month a “Testimony” 
upon the subject was prepared and published, urging 
members to “discountenance and avoid every measure 
tending to excite disaffection to the king, as supreme 
magistrate, or to the legal authority of his govern- 
ment,” and publicly declaring “ against every usurpa- 
tion of power and authority in opposition to the laws 
and government, and agaipst all combinations, insur- 
rections, and illegal assemblies.” 

This gave such offense to the minority, that they at 
once issued their Testimony in a very practical way, 
by summarily withdrawing from all connection with 
the meeting: they still retained the title of Friends, as 
a general designation, but, by way of distinction, as- 
sumed, or had put upon them, — it is uncertain, at this 
distance of time, which, — the title of “Free Quakers.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


37 


However this may be, they afterward adopted it, and 
so designated themselves on the tablet which still re- 
mains in the pediment of the meeting-house they built 
for themselves at the southwest corner of Fifth and 
Arch Streets, and which is now occupied by the Ap- 
prentices’ Library. 

A number of them afterward gave a still more prac- 
tical evidence of their sincerity by forming themselves 
into a military company, which was known by the 
name of the “Quaker Blues.” Whether they were 
drilled in “plain” language, or whether their drill-mas- 
ter ever indulged himself in swearing at them while 
they remained an “ awkward squad,” as drill-masters 
have a bad habit of doing, I am not able to say. With 
these, however, we have nothing to do. 

In addition to this company, many individuals em- 
ployed themselves actively in the contest, according to 
their various gifts ; some in gathering and carrying 
intelligence, some furnishing clothing and supplies to 
the troops, some contenting themselves with busily 
talking treason in a general way, while others acted it 
out boldly by doing a very fair share of hard fighting 
whenever occasion offered. 

Among the most active and energetic of those who 
had thus abandoned their peaceful professions, and had 
lent their voice and example to the spirit of strife and 
resistance, were Bettle and his cousin. Ellis ClavtorL. 
the captain of the troop, whom I have already men- 
tioned. Both had been born and trained in the tenets 
of the society, after its straitest manner. Bottle’s 
natural disposition, however, was headlong and reck- 
less, though under tolerable control when not too far 
roused; but Clayton, though utterly fearless, and 
^ 4 


38 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


never recognizing danger to himself or his troop as an 
obstacle to anything that his judgment told him should 
be done, had none of the headlong, restless bravery 
which delighted in and sought danger for its own sake. 
The grand elements in his character were, unshaken 
calmness under all circumstances, a presence of mind 
which there was no confusing, backed by a sober de- 
termination and an iron will that held their ground 
with a dogged composure against which furious attack 
j and steady pressure alike spent themselves in vain. 

His life-long training in self-command, acting upon 
a nature like this, had eminently qualified him for such 
a command as he now held. He had not accepted it 
rashly, nor without due consideration ; but, after calmly 
weighing the matter, had come to the conclusion that 
it was his duty to fight, and he straightway went about 
performing his duty. He was at this time about 
twenty-eight years of age, but with the staid, grave 
manner of a man much older. 

Among his most intimate companions were Bettle 
and four others, — all younger than himself, and all 
belonging to the same society. These five men organ- 
ized themselves into a troop consisting at first entirely 
of officers, — Clayto n having first been unanimously 
chosen captain, and having in turn appointed the 
others his lieutenants: this done, all immediately 
began the work of raising the troop in earnest. 

This was a work of time, not only from the severity 
of the requirements as to qualification, for Clayton 
had set out from the first with the determination to 
make his troop one of picked men, who should all 
come fully up to his standard, not for the purpose of 
making a fine display, but that it should be thoroughly 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


39 




effective ; but also, most of all, for the reason that it 
was to be made up of volunteers, who, as Bettle, in 
the preceding chapter, explained to his recruits, should 
equip at their own expense, and take their chance of pay. 

They were carefully trained by Clayton himself, 
each new recruit, as he came in, having the advan- 
tage of the example of the older hands, so that, after 
having got enough together to form a kind of nucleus 
of discipline, he had comparatively little trouble in 
training them. 

This training, of both men and horses, was directed 
to making them as effective as possible for both regu- 
lar and irregular service, — for fighting, either alone or 
together, as detached skirmishers, or, when desirable, 
as a part of the regular line. For this latter service, 
however, Clayton, who, grave and sober as he was, 
preferred to be his own master, had little affection, 
and never subjected himself to it long at a time. 

It was just such bands as this (for Clayton was by 
no means the only partisan leader in the war) that 
performed some of the most brilliant exploits in the 
war of Independence. 

They have found no place in history beyond mere 
cursory allusions, from the fact that they led to no 
great or decisive results affecting the ultimate issue of 
the contest, and therefore had no claim to room upon 
its pages. 

Their service was of a rambling, desultory character, 
involving a great deal of hard fighting, a rough and 
exposed life, and calling for an unceasing exercise of 
what is familiarly known as “mother wit” — that valu- 
able faculty which tells men what to do, in an emer- 
gency, just when the emergency comes — in managing 


rv. 


40 


#? ' 

' 

THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

or guarding against surprises, and in eluding or divert- 
ing pursuit where fighting was not deemed advisable. 

These parties, when not actually attached to the 
main body, amused themselves by various irregular 
escapades, such as beating up the enemy’s quarters at 
divers untimely and unseasonable hours between mid- 
night and dawn, setting the whole camp in turmoil 
with firing and running in of sentries, rattling of 
drums, yelling of bugles, officers shouting all manner 
of unintelligible orders, half-dressed men hurrying to 
their stations, horses neighing and plunging, while in 
the midst of the hurly-burly a body of twenty or thirty 
horsemen shouting like a hundred, and magnified by 
the darkness and confusion into twice as many, would 
skirr through the camp, slashing, shooting, and tram- 
pling down all who stood in their way, and before 
anything like order could be restored or any effectual 
resistance offered, would be out of sight and reach, the 
fierce clatter of hoofs and steel scabbards gradually 
dying away in the gloom, leaving the discomfited 
enemy to turn in again, sending a storm of unsa- 
vory blessings after the uneasy Yankees who couldn’t 
let tired men enjoy their sleep in peace. 

When nothing better was on hand, they were rang- 
ing the country, intercepting supplies intended for the 
British, cutting off foraging- parties, at times quarter- 
ing themselves on the Tory farmers and doing a little 
foraging among them on their own account; at others, 
bivouacking in the woods; now here, now there; in 
their movements as rapid and unreliable as swallows, 
as silent and unseen as the terrible copperhead, and 
with a stroke as. deadly. 

During all the spring and part of the summer of 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


41 


lTTY, Philadelphia had been in a state of anxious ex- 
citement in view of the evident intention of the British 
general, who was then stationed with his army in 
New York, to possess himself of the city. 

Washington was holding northern New Jersey, 
doing little in the way of active service, but warily 
watching Sir William Howe’s motions, baffling every 
attempt of the latter either to draw him into a battle 
or to deceive him into withdrawing his forces from the 
post they occupied and thus give him a clear passage 
across New Jersey. 

Sham deserters from the enemy came into Washing- 
ton’s camp, bringing cunningly devised fables about 
northern marches of the British ; his own scouts and 
spies lent themselves, wittingly or unwittingly, to these 
attempts; and letters were sent by messengers who 
were instructed to get themselves intercepted, contain- 
ing false intelligence of intended movements. 

Washington held his ground, satisfied that Philadel- 
phia, and Philadelphia only, was the point to be pro- 
tected. 

During all this excitement, Clayton was busily en- 
gaged in filling up his troop and preparing them for 
service. All his lieutenants were out in different di- 
rections ; though, as Bettle is more intimately connected 
with my story, he is the only one whom I have followed. 
At the time he left Thomas Sanford’s, however, the 
others had all got in with their recruits, and the troop 
was nearly full. From the time of his arrival with his 
eleven men, who just made up the hundred to which 
Clayton had limited his force, the work of training men 
and horses — and severe training it was — was diligently 
pursued, until the early part of August. 

4* 


42 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


At this time Washington received unquestionable 
information that the British had embarked, and that 
on the 23d of July the fleet had left Sandy Hook 
and was moving southward : he immediately marched 
in the same direction, keeping out reconnoitering par- 
ties in advance to watch the coast, until he was informed 
that the fleet was off the capes of Chesapeake Bay. 
Upon receiving this intelligence, he marched at once 
for Chester by way of Philadelphia, reaching the 
latter on the morning of the 24th of August, march- 
ing with his whole force through the city in order to 
encourage the Whigs with a display of his strength, 
and then moving directly to Chester, where he arrived 
the same evening. And while the doomed army of 
eleven thousand men, half of them raw militia, was 
marching southward on that peaceful Sabbath morn- 
ing, the farmers of Turkey Point, together with some 
fifteen hundred of the Pennsylvania and Delaware mili- 
tia, were watching the debarkation of seventeen thou- 
sand trained veterans under Cornwallis and Knyp- 
hausen. 

The American army entered Philadelphia at the 
upper end of Front Street, and marched down to Chest- 
nut, up which they turned and proceeded westward. 
As they passed the State-House, a company of about 
a hundred horsemen, which was drawn up in the mea- 
dow on the north side of the street, was put in motion, 
and, wheeling in solid column into the street in the 
rear, fell into the line of march in a grave silence which 
contrasted strongly with the vociferous cheering all 
around them, through which was heard the loud clang- 
ing of the old Liberty Bell in the steeple. 

They were all young men, ranging apparently from 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


43 


twenty to thirty -five years of age, splendidly mounted, 
and sitting in their saddles with that easy, at-home 
look which is only acquired by a life-long practice in 
riding. 

As they wheeled into the line, a new hurrah broke 
forth from the crowd, and a boy’s shrill voice yelled, — 

“ Hooray for the fightin’ Quakers 1” 

The words caught the ear of Washington, who was 
riding with his staff a short distance in the rear of the 
army, and he sent forward an aid to inquire into the 
meaning of it and ascertain who these silent volunteers 
were. The officer accordingly rode to the head of the 
company, and asked, — 

“ Who commands this troop ?” 

“Ellis Clayton,” was the answer given by the per- 
son addressed, who was a young man in a drab coat, 
such as Quakers wore then, not differing materially in 
shape from that of the officer himself, but destitute of 
any ornament whatever. The principal officers of the 
troop wore similar coats, and the ordinary felt hats of 
the time, looped up at the sides, and, as well as their 
leader, were manifestly Quakers. The only thing about 
the leader’s dress to distinguish him from these was a 
blqe silk sash which he wore about his waist, while his 
officers wore only plain black belts. The rest of the 
troop wore an indescribable variety of costumes. 

“Well,” said the officer, “who may Ellis Clayton 
be?” 

“ The captain of this troop,” was the laconic answer. 

“ So I suppose,” said he, dryly; “and what regiment 
may the troop belong to?” 

“None; the troop is its own regiment.” 

“You are pleased to speak in riddles, sir,” said the 


/ 


44 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


officer. “ Will you do me the favor to explain your- 
self?” 

“ The explanation is very simple ; we are here to 
fight, but we must fight in our own way, under our 
own orders, without being in any way attached to the 
regular line, except at our own discretion.” 

“I doubt if that will be permitted; his excellency is 
not fond of anybody’s discretion but his own, and will 
require you to join some regiment.” 

“ Thee may tell the general that we are ready to 
withdraw at any moment from the line if he is not 
satisfied with our terms; if we fight, we do so without 
being hampered by camp regulations or general orders, 
except when we see fit to subject ourselves to them 
temporarily.” 

“You are tolerably independent,” said the officer, 
“ and a model of conciseness. Will you ride back with 
me and explain yourself to the commander?” 

“ Willingly,” said Clayton. 

So they rode back to the commander, and the aide- 
de-camp reported substantially what he had learned. 

“ How many men have you ?” inquired Washington. 

“One hundred,” was the answer. 

“And I’ll say this for them, your excellency,” ex- 
claimed the aid, “ that I never saw a hundred men to- 
gether that looked more like doing service ; and the 
horses” — he had been eyeing the whole troop critically 
while talking to Ellis Clayton — “ the worst of them 
would be a fitting mount for a general.” 

“ As you are not willing to join the line, sir, what 
kind of service do you propose to undertake ?” asked 
the general. 

“We propose, with thy permission,” — a grave smile 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


45 


flitted across Washington’s face at the word “ thy,” 

“ we propose, with thy permission, to act as irregular 
cavalry ; as scouts ; as outliers, free to come and go 
as we please.” 

“ You are asking a dangerous license ; what guar- 
antee have I that you will not carry intelligence of my 
movements to the enemy, or act against me in some 
other way?” 

“I don’t think thee would as| any guarantee after 
the first battle ; but I have prepared myself for this 
objection.” 

He handed an unsealed note to Washington, who 
opened it and read as follows : 

“ The bearer, Captain Ellis Clayton, is a true and 
stanch patriot, as I know from long personal acquaint- 
ance with him. His own fidelity, and that of those 
for whom he vouches, may be relied upon. 

“John Jay.” 

“ I am satisfied, sir,” said Washington, handing him 
back the note, “ and am willing to accept your service 
on your conditions ; and if you and your men are active 
and faithful, you may be of great value. You shall be 
free to come and go as you please, understanding, how- 
ever, that while you may be in camp, or within the 
lines, you will be subject to my orders.” 

The captain looked doubtful. 

“ Outside the camp, your movements will not be in- 
terfered with, nor controlled in any way (except, 
always, when you may have been sent out by the offi- 
cer in command for the time being), unless I hear that 
your men have been guilty of some unwarrantable ex- 
cess : in that case they will be controlled very promptly 
and very much to the purpose. Now, sir, we under- 


46 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS . 


stand each other: if you are content, join your troop; 
if not, there is time to withdraw.” 

“ I am content,” said Captain Clayton ; and, touching 
his hat a little awkwardly, as if unused to such mo- 
tions, he galloped back to the head of his troop 

“ This is a curious addition to our forces,” said 
Washington, turning to General Greene, who was 
riding beside him. “ What do you think of them ?” 

“ Whatever a Quaker feels ‘ a call* to do,” answered 
Greene, who was of Quaker stock himself, “he iswery 
apt to do thoroughly. Your excellency may depend 
upon it, there will be hard fighting wherever these men 
are at work.” 

The army had by this time passed through the built 
portion of the city, and the advanced guard had already 
passed the pontoon over the Schuylkill, and in the 
course of an hour or two more the whole body had 
crossed, and were formed on the other side. 

The thousands of citizens who had accompanied 
them to the east bank gave a parting cheer as the 
army resumed its march, and then returned to their 
homes. 

That evening the army encamped at Chester 


CHAPTER IY. 


The next morning a messenger came to Ellis Clay- 
ton’s troop from the general, requiring the captain’s 
presence at head-quarters. 

He repaired thither at once, and found Washington 
alone. 

“ I have need of your services, Captain Clayton,” 
said he. “ You will leave the camp at once, and re- 
connoiter the country between here and the Chesa- 
peake carefully. I received information last night that 
the enemy had landed at a place called Turkey Point, 
at the mouth of Elk River. You will go there, keep- 
ing your eyes open on the way, hover around in the 
neighborhood of the enemy, and send me as good an 
account as you can procure of their force and probable 
movements. Also see how the people generally stand 
affected.” 

“ Does thee wish me to take the whole troop ?” 
asked Clayton. 

“ By no means. So large a body would only en- 
cumber your movements. A dozen or twenty of your 
best men will be ample. You will have to detach 
some of them, occasionally, to carry intelligence. Avoid 
observation as much as possible.” 

“I think it would be better to have all at work in 
different directions,” said Clayton. “We can go in 
separate bands of about twentv each, uuder the com- 

( 41 ) 


48 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


mand of my officers, each of whom can manage quite 
as well alone as under my orders. We can co-operate 
with each other then, if need be, without being sus- 
pected ; and if an opportunity should offer to strike a 
blow, we can do it effectually in a body.” 

“Well, be it so,” said the general; “you seem to 
have a system of tactics of your own. Do the best 
you can; but be careful not to be taken.” 

“We’ll look out for that,” said Clayton; and, leav- 
ing the house, he hurried to the quarters of his troop 
to give the necessary orders. 

In two hours the troop had left the camp, and were 
on the march down the road to Wilmington. 

When within about two miles., of the town, they 
halted in a wood off the road, and Clayton called one 
of his lieutenants aside. 

“ Levi,” said he, “it will be necessary for the troop 
to separate here, in order to avoid observation. Let 
them divide into squads of from ten to twenty, and 
scatter along the roads between here and Elk, and 
pick up all the information they can. No two squads 
must be seen together or know each other, unless it 
becomes necessary for one of them to call in the help 
of the others. Our business just now is to keep watch, 
and make report of what we see ; but if they should 
light on any parties of the British where there are not 
more noses than can be counted, I suppose they had 
better try to persuade them to retreat or surrender. 
If they should be foolish or obstinate enough to re- 
fuse, thee understands it may be necessary to urge 
them strongly.” 

“ I understand, sir,” said the lieutenant, who, though 
a Quaker, had dropped bis plain language when he 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


49 


put on his sword-belt. “ We’ll try to convince 
them.” 

“ The men know the signals ; thee will impress 
upon them not to be out of hearing of each other any 
more than they can help ; and now I am going on alone,” 
said Clayton, divesting himself of his arms, with the 
exception of a pair of small pistols which he concealed 
in his breast. 

“Why, where are you going, captain?” inquired 
Levi, in amazement. 

“ Right into the heart of the British camp : they 
won’t suspect a plain Friend of any evil intention,” 
said he, with a smile, “and there’s the place to get 
information.” 

So saying, Ellis Clayton rode off in a quiet jog-trot, 
his horse, with drooping neck and tail, looking like 
nothing but an ordinary farm-beast, and they passed 
down the road out of sight: 

The lieutenant turned to the troop. 

“Boys,” said he, “we’ve got work to do. Wheeler, 
Wetherill, and Bettle, each of you take twenty men 
and make for Elk separately ; that is, don’t be seen 
together; at the same time, keep within hearing of 
each other’s carbines.” 

“Are we to go through Wilmington?” inquired 
Wetherill. 

“No; go around it. I’m going through there my- 
self, with the rest of the men. Keep off the roads 
and in the woods as much as possible ; scatter the 
men while under cover, each of you, however, keeping 
his own squad within hearing of a call.” 

“ Suppose we see any of the British,” said Bettle, 
“what shall we do?” 

5 D 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


;>0 


“At them, if they are not strong enough to eat you,” 
said Levi. 

“Very good,” answered Bettle; “now we know 
what to do. Come, boys.” And he galloped off, fol- 
lowed helter-skelter by the twenty most reckless dare- 
devils in the troop, put under his command by Clay- 
ton, who knew him well, on the good old principle of 
“ like master like man.” 

“ He’s going to skirt the road,” said Levi. “ Weth- 
erill, do you bear off more into the country ; Wheeler, 
you take the other side of the road ; and keep a sharp 
lookout, both of you.” 

The two detachments moved off in the directions 
indicated, and when all were fairly out of sight in the 
woods, which lined the greater part of the road on 
both sides, Levi Barton, the lieutenant, put himself at 
the head of the remaining forty men, and moved 
briskly down the road. 

When he arrived at Wilmington, he found the town 
in commotion. The inhabitants were packing up their 
valuables for flight, and the streets were crowded with 
wagons and carts loaded with grain and household 
goods, barrels of liquor, sacks of salt, worth almost its 
weight in silver, beds, spinning-wheels, dry goods, and 
groceries, in fact, almost everything portable, making 
their way out of the town, to go up the Brandywine 
toward the forks in Chester county, in order to be out 
of the track of the enemy, who it was expected would, 
as a matter of course, march through and plunder 
Wilmington. 

They were accompanied by a guard of the Ameri- 
can light-horse, which had been detached to escort 
them. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


51 


From them Barton obtained the latest news from 
the enemy’s army, but heard nothing that he deemed 
of sufficient importance to send to head-quarters, and 
passed on his way to New Castle. He halted near 
the town, it being by this time near evening, and 
rested for a couple of hours, to give the men time to 
eat supper and feed and groom their horses. 

It was night when they resumed their march, but 
the full moon was shining, and they pushed on rapidly 
along through New Castle and down the road, the 
moonlight breaking through the trees, here and there, 
with uncertain gleams, and the fire-flies or “ lightnin’- 
bugs” sparkling in the air around them. 

They had goue about five miles in silence, except 
for the trample of the horses and the rattling of their 
equipments, when Barton suddenly heard the shrill, 
spiteful note of a “katydid” directly behind him. The 
whole troop stopped instantly. 

“ What is it, Frank ?” he whispered, as one of the 
men silently moved forward a few steps till he reached 
his side. 

The man pointed, without speaking, to a light at 
some distance to the left, in the woods. 

“It’s nothing but a farm-house,” said Barton. 

“ Nothin’ but yer granny,” said Frank Lightfoot. 

This was not exactly respectful from a private to 
his officer ; but the rank and file of such a troop were 
necessarily rather rough fellows, and, while perfectly 
obedient in all matters of discipline, were allowed, 
and always used to its full extent, the liberty of ex- 
pressing themselves in the most terse and straight- 
forward way. 

“ My granny’s at home, knitting stockings, I ex- 


52 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


pect,” said Barton, coolly. “ What do you think it is, if 
not a light in a farm-house window V ’ 

“ Too low down, an’ the light’s too big,” said Frank, 
laconically. 

“I believe you are right,” said Barton, taking a 
second look. “ Go in and see what it is; we’ll stop here 
unless we hear an owl-hoot: if we hear one, we’ll 
move on around the turn of the road ; if we hear two 
in succession ” 

“ What do you mean by ‘ succession’ ?” said Frank. 

“Two in a row,” answered Barton, gravely. 

“Why couldn’t you say so, then, an’ not talk so 
big ?” 

“Very well: when we hear two calls in a row, we’ll 
understand that you want help ; so now be off.” 

Frank dismounted, took off his sword, which he tied 
to the horn of his saddle, and moved off cautiously 
into the woods, armed only with his knife and car- 
bine. 

For about a quarter of an hour his companions sat 
still, listening intently, but hearing nothing. The light 
was too far off to allow them to see anything but itself 
shining among the trees, and Barton, beginning to feel 
uneasy, was thinking of moving forward himself into 
the wood to see what had become of Frank, when the 
tremulous owl-note was heard, apparently some dis- 
tance in advance. All listened intently, but the cry 
was not repeated. At a sign from Barton, the men 
tucked their swords under their left legs, pressing them 
against the saddles to prevent any rattling of scab- 
bards, unslung their carbines and took them under their 
right arms, and then, filing off to each side of the road, 
where the ground was not beaten so hard as in the 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


53 


middle, rode at a slow walk toward the turn in the 
road which Barton had indicated. 

At a short distance below the turn, a narrow cart- 
way led off into the wood, on one side of which was a 
space comparatively open, the trees having been a 
good deal thinned out. Halting here, Barton, after 
listening a moment and hearing nothing, uttered a cry 
like a whip-poor-will, and listened again. The long, 
doleful hoot of the owl quavered right over his head, 
from among the branches of the tree beneath which he 
was standing. The next moment Frank slid down the 
trunk and stood before him. 

“ Well,” said Barton, “what do you make of them?” 

“A hundred and fifty Tories around a fire,” said 
Frank. 

“What are they doing, and how far off are they?” 

“Some asleep, some playin’ cards, some drinkin’ 
whisky, — half a mile,” said Frank, categorically 
answering both questions at once. 

“ How do you know they are Tories ?” asked Barton. 

“New English muskets ; officer got a red coat.” 

“A hundred and fifty men,” muttered Barton, mus- 
ingly ; “ that’s rather heavy odds against forty, unless 
we can surprise them. Have they posted sentries, 
Frank ?” he added, in a louder tone, though even then 
his voice would have been inaudible twenty feet off. 

“ Yes,” answered Frank, “ ’cept where they’re 
wanted.” 

“How do you mean?” asked Barton. 

“ Why, look’e here ; they’re pitched round a spring 
dow r n there, and their fire’s built on the bank of the run 
that comes from it. The run goes between deep banks, 
with plenty of bushes on each side. There’s where 
5 * 


54 


THE QUAKER PARTISAN’S. 


they want a sentry. Got none, o’ course. Officer’s a 
greenhorn. Young ensign with bought commission, I 
reckon.” 

“That was where you got near them, then?” said 
Barton. 

“To be sure; crep’ up within thirty feet. Heard ’em 
talkin’ how they were goin’ down to Elk to-morrow 
mornin’. But that ain’t all. Look’e here : Bettle’s 
boys is down there in the hollow a-watchin’ em, too I” 

“Bettle’s boysl” exclaimed Barton. “Do they know 
we’re here?” 

“Yes: they’re a- waitin’.” 

“ Good !” said Barton ; “ that makes sixty ; we’ll have 
them. Now, how is the ground? fit for horses?” 

“No; covered with brush; must be done afoot.” 

“Yery well. Dismount, men; Simpson and Parker, 
lead the horses farther in among the trees, and wait 
there.” 

This conversation occupied but a few moments, and 
the party were soon on their march under Frank’s 
guidance. The horses, each with his rider’s carbine 
and scabbard tied to the saddle-horn, had been led out 
of sight among the trees, and the party, taking to the 
stream, which ran, as Frank had stated, between deep 
banks overgrown with bushes, moved along in single 
file through the water, each man with his pistols in 
his belt, and his sword tied by a thong to his wrist. 

In about ten minutes they reached Bettle’s men, 
who were impatiently awaiting them, and could see 
through the bushes the fire, and the enemy around it 
occupied very much as Frank had described. They 
were about a hundred yards distant, but the fire, fed 
with dry brushwood, which lay plentifully scattered 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


55 


around, burned brightly enough to enable them to see 
that the arms were stacked in a position to be easily 
reached by their owners. A sentry was pacing up 
and down in front of them. Nearly all the men who 
"were not asleep were playing cards, and had been 
drinking freely. It was getting late, however, and 
one after another lay down to sleep, until, in the course 
of half an hour, during which the concealed party had 
watched them in grim silence, all whom they could see 
were snoring, except the officer in command — who still 
sat by the fire, his horse, the only one in the party, 
tied to a sapling near him — and the sentry who was 
on guard over the muskets. 

The latter was pacing up and down his beat, hum- 
ming to himself some old tune, evidently acting upon 
the feeling that the duty he was performing was more 
a matter of form than of any special necessity. 

The bushes immediately around the spring and over 
the space occupied by the company had been roughly 
cleared by hacking down the low brush and piling it 
into couches, on which the sleepers lay in their half- 
drunken slumber, as they had carelessly thrown them- 
selves down. 

They, of course, occupied some considerable space, 
extending from the spring down the course of the 
stream. The bushes had been cut away only to the 
edge of the sloping bank, and the muskets were stacked 
near the edge in the corner of the cleared ground 
farther from the spring. The end of the sentry’s beat 
in one direction was close to a thick clump of saplings, 
with bushes growing densely among them higher than 
a man’s head. 

The young officer, who was still sitting by the fire, 


56 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


about twenty yards from this clump of bushes, casually 
turned to glance at the sentry as he reached this point, 
when, at the instant the latter turned on his heel to go 
back, the officer caught a glimpse of something like a 
cord sweeping through the moonlight clear over the 
point of the man’s bayonet, with a shrill “ whish” like 
a switch cutting rapidly through the air, and the sentry 
went down backward into the bushes, disappearing as 
suddenly and utterly as though the ground had opened 
beneath him. The officer sprang to his feet and shouted 
an alarm. His men, thus suddenly roused, and stupid 
from the effect of their previous drinking, scrambled up 
confusedly, and huddled together for a moment like a 
flock of sheep. 

“To the guns! to the guns!” he shouted, drawing 
his sword and springing toward the stacked arms, his 
men, who had recovered from their momentary be- 
wilderment, rushing pell-mell after him. 

But, while the cry was on his lips, a crowd of dusky 
figures poured from the bushes, and, before he had 
cleared half the distance to the guns, had possessed 
themselves of them, and were formed in solid column 
right in his path, holding him and his unarmed rabble 
covered with their own weapons. The other sentries 
had run in at the alarm, and he shouted to them to fire 
They hesitated a moment, for there were only three or 
four of them ; and then the first voice which was heard 
from the attacking party, spoke. 

“ Hold ! if you fire a shot, if a single hand is raised, 
you shall die to a man. Ground your arms !” 

The four muskets struck the ground with a single 
“ thud.” 

“You are outgeneraled,” said Barton, who was 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


5t 


the speaker, calmly, to the officer; “deliver up your 
sword.” 

“I. deliver my sword to no leader of banditti, sir,” 
said the officer, scornfully; “I will deliver it to any 
regular officer, if such a man can be found in your 
gang.” 

“ You are wasting breath, my friend, in hard words,” 
said Barton, as calmly as ever ; “ you will deliver it to 
plain Levi Barton, in command of a detachment of the 
irregular cavalry of the rebel army, or it will be taken 
from you; I care not which.” 

“ Take it, then, if you can 1” said the Englishman, 
frantic with rage and mortification ; and, springing for- 
ward, he made a furious lunge, which would assuredly 
have left but little more to be said about Barton, had 
the latter been one whit less wary and prompt than he 
showed himself. 

As it was, he only saved himself by instinctively 
throwing down his left hand and seizing the blade near 
the point, turning it aside, while the Englishman, losing 
his balance as his arm was wrenched aside, came full 
against the breast of his antagonist. 

Half a dozen bullets from the captured muskets, 
fired aimlessly in the hurry, whizzed past the young 
officer’s head as he sprang forward, and as many men 
darted from the ranks of the Americans to the assist- 
ance of their leader. 

“Back!” shouted Barton; “back, Isay! leave me 
to deal with him!” and, twitching the straight cut-and- 
thrust sword which hung by its thong from his wrist, 
into his hand, he made a step in advance as the Eng- 
lishman recovered himself, and the blades crossed. 

It was a splendid night for such a passage at arms. 


58 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


The full moon was shining directly overhead, without 
a cloud, giving a light almost as bright as day. The 
fire of brushwood near the spring was still blazing, 
though partially burnt out, and its flickering light cast 
a weird, uncanny glare on the flashing swords which 
were now busy, on the ghostly-looking trees, and the 
masses of eager faces between which the two combat- 
ants were stamping and circling around. 

For two or three minutes nothing was audible but 
the sharp clink of the swords as they struck together, 
or the low rasp as blade grated along blade, as the 
combatants stood warily upon guard for a moment. 
Then from one a gleam would dart across the moon- 
light straight at the other’s breast. A quick turn of 
the wrist, and it would swerve, slide back, and the 
blades would play across, around, and past, each other 
so rapidly that the spectators could discern nothing 
but the flashing gleams as the weapons glanced in the 
moonbeams or in the light of the fire. 

The whole affair was over in five minutes; but in 
that short time, justice compels me to state, Barton 
was as many times within a hair’s-breadth of losing 
his life. So far as skill and practice were concerned, 
his antagonist was fully his match ; and he owed his 
life to the coolness which his Quaker training in self- 
command had made a second nature, and which, 
though he fought with energy and in stern earnest, 
he never lost for an instant, contenting himself at first 
with standing on the defensive, and parrying as well as 
he could — and it took all the skill he had — the furious 
lunges with which his antagonist, half mad with rage, 
attacked him. He had also the advantage of a more 
muscular and better-knit frame, and, above all, of 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


59 


what, in fencing, other things being equal, will almost 
infallibly secure a victory, — a suppler and stronger 
wrist. The Englishman, in his blind fury, had thrown 
himself open repeatedly, but Barton, though he did 
not fail to see it, took no advantage of it, as he did 
not intend to kill him if he could help it. 

Warily standing thus on his guard, he watched his 
adversary keenly, and seeing him, at length, beginning 
to breathe hard and quickly, he suddenly changed his 
plan, at the last minute, and attacked in his turn. 

There was a sudden thrust, a parry, a locking of 
hilts, a quick spring of Barton’s wrist, and the Eng- 
lishman’s sword flew out of his hand, and he stood un- 
armed and panting. 

“Will you give up your sword?” said Barton, in 
the calm, unmoved tone he had used all along, to his 
antagonist. 

“You have disarmed me, sir, and I am in your 
power,” said the officer, gloomily. “Do with me as 
you please: I will thank you if you will pass your 
sword through me, and end me and my dishonor 
together.” 

“You surrender, then, unconditionally?” asked 
Barton. 

The officer bowed. “I can do no better, sir.” 

“Frank,” said Barton, “bring me that sword.” 

Frank picked it up from where it lay at his feet, and 
banded it to Barton. 

The latter turned toward the officer, who was look- 
ing at him in some bewilderment, and placed the hilt 
in his hand, saying, kindly, — 

“Take back your sword: it couldn’t be in a braver 
hand, nor in any that knows better how to use it. It 


GO 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


is no disgrace to have been disarmed jby a stronger 
man — I can’t say a better fencer.” 

“I thank you, sir,” said the officer, in a low tone, 
and speaking with much emotion. “You have treated 
me most generously. I am aware that, by the laws of 
war, I have forfeited my life in attacking you as I did, 
and you give it to me without asking.” 

“We’ll let that pass,” said Barton; “brave men are 
not plenty enough to be killed unnecessarily, even if 
they are enemies.” 

“Well, sir,” said the officer, “you have made one 
enemy less, and one friend more, if you will allow me 
to call myself so.” 

“I had rather have that sword of yours for me than 
against me,” said Barton, smiling, “and had a good 
deal rather have its master for a .friend than for an 
enemy. I must do an unfriendly act, however. It 
will be necessary for me to take you and your men 
with me to the camp as prisoners.” 

“ Of course,” said the officer : “ it is your duty to 
do so.” 

He then turned to his men and ordered them to form 
in column, and the sentries, who still retained their 
muskets, to stack them with the rest. When they had 
done so, and stood looking rather sheepishly at each 
other, he said to Barton, — 

“We wait your pleasure, sir.” 

“ Boys,” said Barton to his troop, “ each of you take 
two of those muskets, sling one to your backs with re- 
versed bayonets, and keep the other in hand. I don’t 
distrust you,” he said, in a low tone, to the officer, 
“but I do distrust your' men, and, with such a force, 
must use every precaution.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


61 


** You have reason to, sir,” said the latter, in the same 
tone; “for a set of greater scoundrels never went un- 
hanged than half of them are. If it were not for the 
shame of being surprised through my own carelessness, 
I would feel inclined to thank you for having released 
me from the command of them.” 

As he spoke, he turned suddenly to one of his men, 
who had stepped forward and whispered something in 
his ear. 

“ Take that, you infernal scoundrel !” he exclaimed, 
dashing his sword-hilt against the fellow’s mouth with 
a force that sent him reeling back into the ranks with 
his front teeth knocked out and his jaw broken. 

“ What’s the matter?” said Barton, in great surprise, 
while the sharp click of gunlocks cocking ran along his 
own ranks. 

“ Only an illustration of what I just told you,” said 
the officer, bitterly. “ That fellow proposed to seize you 
and hold you, so that your men could not fire on them 
without killing you, while they made terms for their 
own safety.” 

“ They wouldn’t have gained much by that,” said 
Barton, coolly: “my men are used to hitting nothing^ 
but what they aim at, when they have time to aim 
at all.” 

“Well, let him go,” said the officer. “I believe I 
have spoiled his talking for awhile.” 

The Tories were then ordered to march forward into 
the woods, the Americans guarding them on each side, 
and so they proceeded along the course of the little 
stream, leading the horse with them, until they reached 
the junction of the roads. A whistle from Barton was 
6 


62 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


answered from a little distance in the woods, and soon 
after the horses of the troop issued forth, following the 
soldiers who were mounted on the foremost. The 
whole party reached the American camp, without any 
further disturbance, about daybreak, and Barton re- 
ported himself at head-quarters and delivered his 
prisoners. 


CHAPTER V. 


When Ellis Clayton reached Turkey Point, he found 
the army debarked and encamped about a mile back in 
the country, with the exception of three brigades of 
Hessians under Knyphausen, which were posted near 
the landing. 

The ships lay off the mouth of the river, with boats 
passing to and fro between them and the shore, busily 
engaged in landing what remained of the army stores 
and equipage. 

Approaching an officer who was standing near the 
landing, superintending the work that was going on, 
he said to him, — 

“Friend, does thee think there would be any objec- 
tion to my going within the camp ? It is a new and 
strange sight to me, and I feel a curiosity to see it 
more closely. ” 

The officer stared hard at the meek-looking indi- 
vidual who addressed him so blandly, but at last 
answered, — 

“Well, I don’t know that there would, Friend 
George Fox. But what interest can a man of your 
cloth take in such worldly matters as soldiers and 
camps ? However, go in ; but don’t talk to any of the 
men on duty.” 

So Clayton quietly walked in, — I forgot to mention 

( 63 ) 


64 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


that he had left his horse at a house about half a 
mile from the landing, — and sauntered quietly and with 
apparent listlessness through the camp, but with his 
eyes about him, noting everything, — the bad condition 
of the horses, — the artillery, which had not yet been 
removed, carefully fixing in his mind the number and 
weight of the guns and the supply of ammunition, as 
well as he could judge of the latter, — but finding his 
attempts to gain information from the soldiers he met, 
a little impeded in consequence of not understanding 
a word of German, and of those he spoke to not under- 
standing a word of English except the one w’ord 
“reb’l.” 

The only answers he received, “Nein” — “Ya, 
meinherr” — and “Wier no sprechen reb’l ” — being 
unsatisfactory in their nature, he gave it up, and con- 
tented himself with making the circuit of the camp, 
marking two or three places on the outskirts where he 
thought a night attack might be advantageously made, • 
and finally reached the point he had started from, 
where he found the officer still on duty. 

“Well, Friend George,” said the latter, “what does 
thee think of the appearance of things? This is only 
a detachment of the army; but it’s a fair specimen. 
Do you think we would have any chance if Mr. Wash- 
ington should catch us?” 

“That would depend upon how many troops thee 
had, and especially how many cannons like those I 
saw over yonder ; if the rest of the army has as many 
in proportion, my impression is that thee might be 
able to persuade him not to molest thee.” 

“Oh, that’s all the artillery,” said the officer; “but, 
besides, we have about seventeen thousand men. Did 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


65 


you happen to have heard how many Mr. Washington 
has?” 

“ No,” said Clayton, who, as it happened, had never 
heard the number mentioned, thoqgh he could have 
made a shrewd guess; “I have not heard, but I 
should suppose nearly as many as what thee men- 
tioned.” 

“ Do you think so?” said the officer : “then there’ll 
be so much the more credit in routing them when we 
meet. But there’s the gun,” he added, as the heavy 
report of the evening gun boomed through the camp 
and rolled over the still water of the bay; “you must 
get outside the lines.” 

“ Well, farewell, friend,” said Clayton. “Iam obliged 
for the privilege thee has given me, and hope to be 
able to repay thee some day.?’ 

So saying, he walked away, while the officer looked 
after him suspiciously, his attention having been at- 
tracted by a slight change in the tone of the last words. 
“ I’ve half a mind to stop that fellow,” he muttered to 
himself; but Clayton was walking quietly along, so 
calmly, and with so little, appearance of suspecting that 
he was suspected, that the officer, whose attention was 
also called to something else at the moment, relin- 
quished his half-formed purpose, and soon forgot, for 
the time, all about the circumstance. 

Clayton went back to where he had left his horse, 
and, mounting, betook himself with all speed to the 
point occupied by the small force of Americans which 
was in the neighborhood. These had been sent down 
more for the purpose of assisting in the removal of 
the stores, and protecting those who were employed 
in this way, than with any idea of their fighting. 

6 * 


66 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

The next morning, about daybreak, he was aroused 
by a great bustle in the camp, accompanied by a cheer 
or two, which, however, were promptly and sternly 
silenced by the officer in command. 

“ What’s the matter?” he inquired of a soldier who 
was hurrying past him to the commander’s quarters. 

“Don’t know, exactly,” said the soldier; “some 
prisoners brought in, I b’lieve.” 

Clayton hurried forward with the rest, and there, 
sure enough, in front of the commander’s tent, were 
Barton and Bettle with their sixty men, surrounding, 
as well as they could, their one hundred and fifty 
prisoners. 

Barton glanced at him as he came near ; but a slight 
knitting of Clayton’s brows, for an instant, warned him 
against any public recognition of him. The men 
glanced from one to the other and understood the hint 
at once, and gave no sign of recognition whatever, 
but sat still on their horses. 

A few words from Barton to the commander sufficed 
to explain matters; the prisoners were placed under 
guard, with the exception of their officer, who was re- 
leased upon his parole not to leave the camp ; and the 
troop was dismissed. 

“So thee’s been at work?” said Clayton, after the 
crowd had scattered, so that no one was within hear 
ing. “ Where did thee pick up this party ?” 

“About ten miles back in the woods,” said Barton, 
who then gave him a detailed account of the occur- 
rence, though much more concisely than I have done. 

“It was well done,” said Clayton, “and I am the 
more pleased that thee managed it without shedding 
blood. Has thee seen Wetherill and Wheeler?” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


67 


“No,” said Barton ; “I presume they’re not far off, 
but there’s been no sign of them as yet.” 

“After thee and the men have had breakfast and 
taken some sleep, I want thee to send Bettle and a 
dozen men to look for them. I shall want them, per- 
haps, to-night ; I want thee, also, to send a trusty mes- 
senger to Chester to General Washington. Tell him 
that the enemy have landed in good condition, with the 
exception of the horses, which are down in flesh in con- 
sequence of their long voyage ; they have a full train 
of field-pieces, with plenty of ammunition; they are 
preparing to march up into the country, and will pro- 
bably pass through Wilmington ; the people, generally, 
are discouraged, and inclined to accept the protection 
which Howe has proclaimed. That is about all, except 
what relates to thy own affair last night.” 

About sunset, the remaining forty rangers, under 
Wetherill and Wheeler, came in, bringingwith them a 
few stragglers whom they had cut off from the main 
body of the enemy, around which they had been hover- 
ing all day; and in half an hour afterward came Bettle 
with his party, to report that they had not been able to 
find them; they had been reconnoitering one side of 
the army, while Wetherill and Wheeler were hovering 
about the other. 

,a Wetherill informed Clayton that one of his men had 
been in the camp disguised as a laborer, and had gath- 
ered from the talk of the soldiers that they expected 
to march the next morning. 

“ To-morrow morning,” said Clayton. “Are the 
horses fresh enough for service to-night ?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Wetherill; “they’ve had no hard 
work to-day.” 


68 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“ The moon will go down about nine o’clock, ” said 
Clayton, “and it is getting cloudy: it will be a dark 
night, and I believe I’ll give them some exercise.” 

“What are we to do?” inquired Wetherill. 

“ Call the other lieutenants,” said Clayton. 

Barton, Wheeler, and Bettle made their appearance, 
and Clayton unfolded his plan briefly. 

“I’m going to try if we can’t reach Knyphausen’s 
tent and carry him off to-night. Each of you take his 
squad and meet me in the woods on the hill beyond 
the camp at one o’clock in the morning. Go sepa- 
rately. You will have to depend upon signals to find 
the meeting-place after you get into the woods.” 

Clayton had explained the character of his troop to 
the officer in command, and had shown him an order 
from Washington, instructing him to allow them to 
come and go at discretion, so that, at the appointed 
time, being furnished with the pass-word, they found 
no difficulty in passing out, though the sentinel on 
duty where Wheeler’s division passed, stared hard at 
them, and muttered to himself, — 

“ I wonder what devilment the fightin’ Quakers are 
up to now.” 

“We’re going to a ‘meeting for discipline,’” said 
Wheeler, who overheard him. 

After some little time, having walked their horses 
slowly, to avoid noise, the four divisions reached the 
wood at different points, and, after entering fairly among 
the trees, halted in silence, waiting for signals. 

Barton, with his forty men, had entered on the side 
farthest from the camp ; he had been there but a few 
moments when the well-known owl-hoot quavered 
from a point near the center of the wood. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


69 


“ There’s the captain,” said he, as he answered it 
with a whistle, “ and there’s Wetherill,” as the cry of 
a whip-poor-will sounded from the left ; “ forward, 
boys, quietly.” 

In a few minutes, guided by the first signal, which 
was repeated at short intervals, the whole party were 
assembled around Clayton. 

In his calm, impassive way, he gave them their 
orders in a few brief words, and the troop emerged 
from the wood, which was about two miles from the 
Hessian camp. 

The sky was by this time covered with heavy clouds, 
the thunder had begun to mutter in the distance, and 
there was every appearance of a storm. 

As soon as the troop emerged from the wood they 
separated, and descended the hill in small parties, 
silently and cautiously, the tramp of the horses being 
but slightly audible on the soft sward, as they proceeded 
at a slow walk. The wind also was rising, and blow- 
ing directly from the encampment, decreasing ma- 
terially the danger of being heard. A ravine lay across 
their course at some distance from the camp, with a 
space of about a hundred yards of open meadow-ground 
between its brink and the nearest sentinel. It was 
fringed with trees on both sides, while at the bottom 
ran a tumbling brook, which, at one point, pitched over 
some obstructing rocks in a series of irregular cascades, 
falling, altogether, some seven or eight feet; this, of 
itself, made sufficient roaring to drown the noise of 
horse-hoofs proceeding so cautiously. 

The scattered troop assembled again in the ravine, 
and crossed the stream just above the cascade, where 
the water was foaming and splashing over the rocky 


VO THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

bottom, the sure-footed horses feeling their way among 
the slippery stones, with the reins loose upon their 
necks, until they had all reached the other side, and 
formed on the slope of the nearer bank, just below the 
meadow level, and screened by the trees which grew 
upon the brink. In another minute, three of the men 
had dismounted, divested themselves of all their arms 
except a long knife and a light cord of twisted raw- 
hide, such as had been used upon the unlucky sentry 
at the spring when he disappeared so suddenly in the 
bushes, crawled over the edge of the bank, and were 
worming their way, flat upon the ground, through the 
long grass, toward as many different sentinels. The 
sky had grown blacker than ever, and the darkness 
was intense ; it was utterly impossible for the sentries 
to distinguish any object, not above the level of the 
ground, ten feet off, while the three scouts could dis- 
tinguish, dimly, though surely enough for their pur- 
pose, the forms of the sentries against the sky, which, 
black as it was, was lighter than the ground, as they 
paced up and down their respective beats. That of 
the nearest was terminated by a large chestnut- tree, at 
which Frank, who was one of the scouts, had observed 
.him turn and retrace his steps. That of the second 
was terminated by a bend of the ravine, which swept, 
in that direction, half round the camp. That of the 
third, and most remote, terminated at an orchard sur- 
rounded by a worm fence. 

The three men wormed their way stealthily along 
toward the various points I have mentioned, as the 
sentinels paced drowsily to and fro, until they had all 
reached their destinations, Frank lying flat in the, if 
possible, deeper darkness under the tree, while his 


V 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


71 


companions were crouched, one behind the bank of the 
ravine, the other in an angle of the fence, beneath the 
overhanging branches of a large old apple-tree. 

As the sentinel whose beat extended to this place 
reached it, he turned, marched a step or two back, and 
then, stopping, lowered his musket to the ground, and 
stood with the bayonet leaning against his shoulder, 
while he emptied and refilled his exhausted pipe. As 
he did so, a dark form rose silently and swiftly behind 
him ; there was a quick whirl of its arm, a slight 
“whish,” and the raw-hide cord, armed with a leaden 
ball at the end, swept against the gaiters of the un- 
lucky Hessian, coiling around his ankles instantly, 
while a powerful jerk given at the same moment 
snatched his feet backward from under him with a force 
that bronght his nose and mouth into contact with the 
earth before he had time to utter an exclamation. 

He was scarcely down before his captor was upon 
him, with one knee between his shoulders, at the base 
of the neck, effectually preventing him from raising his 
head enough to raise an alarm, while he coolly, but 
with wonderful precision and rapidity, tied his hands 
behind him with the end of the cord. The scout then, 
by a sudden pull, turned him on his back, clapping his 
hand over his mouth as he did so, thus preventing any 
imprudent outcry, and then, without wasting any 
words, which the other would not have understood, 
enjoined silence by the low “sh” which is intelligible 
in all languages, enforced by a slight but expressive 
pressure of his knife-point upon the side of the neck, 
between the ear and the edge of the leather stock. 
He then slightly relaxed his grasp upon the mouth, to 
see whether his prisoner had discretion enough to take 


72 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


the hint and keep it shut. As may be supposed, the 
fellow was half stunned, and a good deal more than 
half confused, by his fall: he was just beginning to 
recover his faculties as his captor eased his hand from 
his mouth, and immediately showed that he had very 
little discretion, by opening it to shout for help, where- 
upon his captor, who had untwined the cord from his 
legs, clapped his left hand upon his throat in a way 
that made him open his mouth to its full extent for 
breath, and incontinently thrust the leaden ball, about 
as large as a walnut with the hull on, into his wide- 
stretched jaws, cleverly filling up the cavity and effec- 
tually stopping any noise from issuing thereout. Tying 
a handkerchief tightly around the mouth, to keep the 
extempore gag in its place, he led his prisoner cau- 
tiously, but rapidly, away in the shadow of the orchard, 
until he reached the ravine, diving into which, he hur- 
ried up to where the troop was stationed. 

Frank and the remaining scout came in at the same 
time. They had been less fortunate, in one respect at 
least, for both had killed their men. Frank had been 
compelled to do so ; for as he put his hand down to 
raise himself behind the tree under which the sentinel 
had at that instant turned, he placed it, and pressed 
with his whole weight, right upon a cluster of chestnut- 
burrs, which some urchin in passing had clubbed down. 
Though he made no exclamation, the sharp, unexpected 
sting made him start slightly, and the soldier heard 
him and turned. There was no time to lose ; and, 
leaping upon him, before he had time to lower his mus- 
ket to fire, he seized it by the barrel, and drove his 
knife into the luckless Hessian’s throat. With a single 
effort to shout, which only produced a low, choking 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


73 


gargle, the man fell dead, and Frank sped back across 
the meadow, crouching low until he came within the 
shadow of the trees that lined the ravine. 

The other had taken the same plan as had been 
taken with the sentinel at the spring, and had jerked 
the cord against his throat with such good will that 
the man actually rolled down the bank with his neck 
broken. 

So far all had been successful; and, long as it has 
taken to tell it, was accomplished iu a few minutes. 
Clayton immediately put the troop in motion, calculat- 
ing to pass the lines before the relief guard should 
come around. The storm was drawing nearer, and 
the thunder was beginning to roll heavily, and almost 
continuously, effectually drowning the sound oi the 
horses’ feet, and they reached the lines without being 
discovered ; but it happened that the officer whom 
Claytop had seen the previous evening was in com- 
mand of the relief guard, and after he had returned 
from placing the sentinels, the thought of Clayton’s 
last words, and the half suspicion they had roused, 
recurred to him, and he determined to visit the out- 
posts again before the time was up, to see what the 
sentries were doing. Reaching the bend of the ravine, 
where the upper one was stationed, he found the post 
vacant. 

“The scoundrel’s deserted 1” said he, with an oath ; 
“forward, men, and let’s see what’s become of the 
next one.” 

At this instant, a broad glare of lightning blazed 
across the sky, showing him the whole of Clayton’s 
troop crossing his track between him and the chestnut- 
tree, not more than thirty yards off. 

7 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


U 


“ Fire!” he shouted ; “ fire, you dogs, and then make 
for the tents !” 

He was answered by the instant discharge of all the 
muskets of the patrol, without effect, however, in the 
intense darkness, while the troop, paying no attention 
to his party, now that the alarm was given, put their 
horses to their speed toward the center of the camp, 
where stood Knyphausen’s marquee. 

In a moment after the fire of the guard, they heard 
the long roll of drums in every direction ; there was 
the tramp of hurrying feet, and voices of officers issu- 
ing orders rapidly and sharply, as the men poured, 
half dressed and “ drunk with sleep, ” from their tents, 
and formed hastily to repel an attack of they knew 
not what. 

Then came a rattle of musketry, fired in the direction 
of the roar of hoofs which were sweeping on like a 
hurricane, but fired so hurriedly and at random that 
not a shot took effect. The next instant, however, 
came the heavy bang of a field-piece, which had been 
hastily unlimbered and loaded, and a twelve-pound 
shot hummed through the troop, emptying five or six 
saddles at once. 

A leap of Bettle’s horse brought him alongside the 
gunner, who dropped under the gun just in time to save 
his head from being swept off by a back-handed blow 
of Bettle’s sword. 

Another broad glare of lightning, and then another , 
and another flashed over the sky in such rapid suc- 
cession, that for several seconds the whole expanse of 
meadow and forest and camp was visible in the glim 
mering light, showing the rows of tents, with the gen- 
eral’s marquee in the midst, not thirty yards off ; but 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


15 


the same glare showed the whole camp alive with 
soldiers hurrying to their respective posts, and twenty 
or thirty men rapidly unlimbering the cannon. The 
game was blocked, and nothing was left but to escape 
as well as they could. It looked like a forlorn hope ; 
but Clayton, whose coolness and watchfulness nothing 
ever disturbed, fertile in resources, as he now and 
many a time afterward had sore need to be, was ready 
for the emergency. His keen eye had observed, while 
the lightning was flashing, that the only force actually 
opposed to him was the small detachment whose in- 
effectual fire he had just received, and which was only 
half formed. He determined to charge their flank, cut 
his way through, if possible, and pass across their rear 
before the others could join them, and so run the gaunt- 
let of the irregular fire, or turn on them again before 
they could form, and scatter them. 

He gave his orders instantly, and the column wheeled 
and dashed headlong at the enemy, riding down all in 
their way, the horses, trained to their work, striking 
furiously with their forefeet and seizing with their teeth 
every one within reach. 

The enemy turned, promptly enough, as they gained 
the rear, but their line, such as it was, was hopelessly 
disordered, and in another moment there was a con- 
fused hurly-burly of horse and foot in deadly hand-to- 
hand strife, man to man. 

They were so mingled that it was impossible for 
those coming up to fire without killing their own 
friends; but the nearest body, consisting of about 
fifty or sixty, having had time to form, came up in 
solid column with the bayonet. Another body, rather 
stronger, was advancing on the other side, and Clay- 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


76 

ton saw, in the now almost incessant blaze of the 
lightning, that he was hemmed in. 

“ By the piper,” said the officer at the head of the 
smaller company, “ if it isn’t George Fox, with a 
carnal weapon in his hand! Thee’s done for, Friend 
George.” 

“ Perhaps thee’s mistaken,” said Clayton, who had 
recognized the voice of the officer to whom he had 
been talking at the landing; “perhaps thee’s mistaken. 
Away!” he shouted, and his men, who had been in a 
solid square, instantly streamed out into two lines, as 
if by magic, and darted between the opposing forces at 
full speed, crouching low behind their horses’ necks, 
and pouring from beneath them, on either hand, a fire 
from their pistols, which was instantly returned, though 
without much effect on either side. Another moment, 
and they were clear, and a hundred yards off in the 
meadow, but now separated into half a dozen squads, 
and scattered from one end of it to the other. 

Battalion after battalion came up and poured in 
their voile vs, but with little effect, as may be supposed, 
upon an enemy which showed no two men together to 
fire at, and of whom every individual was constantly 
in rapid motion, never standing still for a moment. 
On the other hand, the carbines were cracking, singly 
from all directions in the meadow, as the riders circled 
about like hawks, preserving, in all their apparent 
looseness, a symmetry of evolution which showed 
plainly that some incomprehensible kind of discipline 
was at work among them. This irregular fire did a 
•good deal of mischief in the solid ranks, nearly every 
ball telling. By this time, however, the artillery was 
brought up, and a storm of grape from half a dozen 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


11 


guns at once whistled across the meadow, knocking 
three or four more men off their horses. It was now 
time to leave in earnest; and, Clayton having given 
the order to retreat, without which his men would 
have stood their ground all night, they gave a parting, 
volley from their carbines, and rode off toward the 
ravine, followed by another ineffectual discharge of 
musketry, and in five minutes more were in the wood 
from which they had first emerged. 

“ Well, of all the — isn’t a Quaker the very d — 1?” 
said the officer who had recognized Clayton; “to slip 
through our fingers that way! ’Bout face; march !” 
and back they marched through the rain, which was 
now pouring furiously. 


?* 


CHAPTER YI. 


The attempt had failed ; not from want of care or 
management on the part of Clayton, but from one of 
# those awkward contingencies which cannot be fore- 
seen, and against which there is no guarding. It 
gave Knyphausen, however, a glimpse of a new fea- 
ture, to him, in the tactics of the enemy. With regu- 
lars he knew very well what to do, but this kind of 
heretical manoeuvring, this way of attacking, like a 
nest of hornets, a sting and away, leaving nothing for 
him to attack in return, was as uncomfortable and 
confusing to him as it became to a good many more 
of his Majesty’s faithful officers before the war was 
ended. 

The next day the British forces moved forward to 
Gray’s Hill, and from that time until the 11th of Sep- 
tember they were occupied in working their way to 
Chad’s Ford, harassed by continual skirmishes and 
desultory attacks, in which our Quaker corps was by 
no means idle. 

It was evening, the 11th of September. The battle 
had been fought gallantly against odds in numbers, 
in training, in discipline ; and it had been lost. The 
broken columns of the bulk of the American army 
were flying down the road from Birmingham Meeting- 
house to Dilworthstown. General Greene still stub- 
(» 8 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


Y9 

bornly held the narrow defile commanding the road, 
where he had stationed himself by Washington’s orders 
as soon as the retreat became inevitable. La Fayette, 
wounded in attempting to rally the flying troops, was 
lying helpless at the house of William Jones, about 
half a mile north of the meeting-house. Pulaski, 
with his cavalry, was covering the retreat. The old 
meeting-house was turned into a hospital, and the 
surgeons were busy with knife and saw and tour- 
niquet. 

When it had grown dark, and the pursuit had ceased, 
Greene withdrew from his position in the defile, and 
marched with what remained of the American forces 
in good order toward Chester, which had been fixed 
upon by the commander as a rendezvous. 

Clayton, however, who had stationed himself with 
his troop in the same defile, under General Greene’s 
orders for the time, separated his force from Greene’s 
as soon as they were fairly on the road, it being no 
part of his^purpose to accompany the retreat of the 
army; and, making a wide circuit to the eastward to 
outreach the British, struck the Brandywine again on 
the east branch, at Jefferis’ Ford, and thence proceeded 
along the road described in the first chapter, till he 
reached the quaint little old brick house which I have 
already described. His force was sadly reduced, con- 
sisting now of not more than thirty-five or forty men, 
with some twenty extra horses, which had kept in the 
ranks after their riders had fallen, and now followed in 
good order in the rear. It was now about eleven 
o’clock at night, and all was still, except the occasional 
bark of a watch-dog, breaking sharply and harshly 
through the monotonous roar of a dam higher up the 


80 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


stream, and the gurgling of the small “run” which 
crossed the road they were on, just below the house. 

The building, or rather the barn* belonging to it, 
came into view first, from a point in the road some 
two or three hundred yards below, where it turned 
the corner of a high bank on the east side. On arriving 
at this point, Clayton gave the order to halt, in a 
low voice, and, turning to Barton, who was riding near 
him, inquired whether he knew the place or anything 
about the country. 

“No,” answered Barton, “ I don’t; but Frank, here, 
is from somewhere in this neighborhood, and ought to 
know.” 

“ Does thee know whose place this is, Frank?” said 
Clayton; “ the men and horses are tired and hungry, 
and I would like to find some place to rest and refresh 
them.” 

“Well, I reckon I know it,” said Frank; “and we 
couldn’t ha’ lit on a better place. Look’e here, this is 
old Tommy Sanford’s place, — as good a Whig as the 
country can turn up, only he’s got so many Tory 
neighbors he can’t show it, for fear o’ bein’ tuk an’ 
handed over to the Britishers if they git the upper 
hand.” 

“ Well, I suppose if we take possession of the house 
and barn without his consent, he won’t mind it par- 
ticularly,” said Barton. 

“No, I ’xpect not,” said Frank. “But jest look’e 
here ; hadn’t I better go up by myself an’ take a squint 
round first, to see if there’s any bloody Tories about 


* It no longer exists ; the present barn is on the west side of the 
road, between the house and the Strasburg road. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


81 


there ? It wouldn’t be nice to tumble on to a hun- 
dred or two of ’em without bein’ ready, would it?” 

“Not very,” said Clayton. “Go on, then, and see 
if thee can perceive any signs of them.” 

“All right,” said Frank; “you keep still, this side 
o’ th’ bridge, till I come back or call. If you hear an 
owl, there’s danger, and you’d better git into the corn- 
field, off from the road, an’ then I’ll know where to find 
you.” 

So saying, Frank dismounted and proceeded toward 
the barn, while one of the other men, by Clayton’s 
order, silently took down the bars that led into the field, 
where the corn was standing high enough to conceal a 
man on horseback, in order that they might, if neces- 
sary, get out of the road without noise. This done, the 
troop stood silent, the men with their carbines under 
their left arms, and their swords tucked in between 
thigh and saddle, as they always rode in night marches. 

In the mean time, Frank proceeded cautiously along 
the road, keeping well in the shadow of the bank, until 
he reached the corner of the barn-yard, which was upon 
the edge of the road. Here he stopped, and, crouching 
by the wall, peered over. The night was too dark to 
see anything distinctly, but he thought he could per- 
ceive, in the deep shadow beneath the upper part of 
the barn, which projected some twenty feet over the 
lower portion and was supported by rude pillars of 
heavy masonry, something like the figures of five or 
six animals, — whether horses or cattle he could not tell. 
He also heard sounds within the stables, apparently 
among the stalls, which seemed to indicate a larger 
number of occupants than he knew the old farmer was 
accustomed to keep. 


82 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


He kept along the yard, crouching below the top of 
the wall, until he reached the corner nearest the house, 
where he could get a clear view of the gangway and 
of the space between the house and barn. Before 
reaching the corner, he laid himself at full length, and 
snaked, or “snigged” his way, as he termed it, along, 
so close to the ground that there was no possibility of 
seeing him, had there been a dozen sentries. But none 
was visible, and Frank cautiously raised himself and 
moved on tiptoe up the gangway to the barn-doors, 
where he stood for a minute listening intently. While 
in this position, he felt his left hand, which was hang- 
ing carelessly behind him, touched by something cold. 
Startled, he turned promptly, hand on knife, but found 
nothing but a dog, which he had given to the old 
farmer about six months before, and which had recog- 
nized him, and was now rubbing its cold nose against 
him and whining joyfully. 

“’St, Carlo, old boy, ’st,” said Frank, in a whisper; 
“ keep that throat o’ yourn still.” And, giving the dog a 
light pinch on the ear, the intelligent brute lay down 
close to the ground, giving no signs of life except a wary 
turning of the head occasionally. 

After listening a minute longer, and hearing no sound, 
except the occasional movements of the horses below, 
Frank pulled, the latch-string of the small door which 
opened in one of the large ones, opened it noiselessly, 
stepped over the bottom board, and entered the thresh- 
ing-floor of the barn. A few moments satisfied him 
that there was no one there but himself, and, coming 
out again, he proceeded toward the house. 

If he had found silence in the barn, he did not find 
it when he reached the kitchen-door ; for the kitchen at 


WHAT FRANK SAW THROUGH THE LITTLE WINDOW. Page 83 




















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THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


83 


least was evidently full of men, who were as evidently 
carousing. He could distinguish certainly not less than 
from forty to fifty different voices amid the confused 
hubbub which prevailed, and, stealing to the window, 
a small narrow opening, glazed with lozenge-shaped 
lights set in lead, and destitute of shutters, he looked 
in, standing a foot or so back, however, that his face 
might be hidden in the gloom outside. 

What he saw was this. The kitchen full of men, 
some asleep on the floor, some sitting around a table, 
in company with a demijohn and an uncouth-looking 
variety of mugs and cups for drinking, and some 
gathered near a corner of the room where sat, evi- 
dently prisoners, Thomas Sanford and his two sons, 
John and Mahlon. The old man’s countenance wore 
an expression of gloomy thought, and he took little 
notice of the efforts of his wife and Jenny, who sat 
beside him, to cheer him up. The younger men sat 
still, with a look of dogged endurance, but with a draw- 
ing together of the eyebrows, and a compressed square- 
ness about the lips, which told of anything but amiable 
feelings at work within. 

At this moment one of the men, a lean, shambling 
fellow, with a long, peaked nose, rose from the table, 
and, crossing the room to where the girl was sitting, 
with that excessively precise step which marks the 
stage of intoxication graphically designated as a ‘ brick 
in his hat,” squared himself before her with a vacant 
look of maudlin sentimentality for a moment, and then, 
before she could suspect what he was at, deliberately 
stooped over her and attempted to take her face be- 
tween his hands and draw it toward his own. As the 
girl thrust away his hands indignantly, and made an 


84 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


unsuccessful attempt to rise from her chair, the two 
young men, who were sitting near, both sprang to 
their feet at once and seized him by the throat. They 
were instantly grappled with, however, by half a dozen 
of those who stood around, and were dragged off, 
struggling furiously. 

“ Let me go!” exclaimed John; “the drunken coward 
has insulted my sister !” and both renewed their strug- 
gles so vehemently that it required all the strength of 
the six men to hold them. 

There was a hurly-burly of voices, — “ Let ’em at 
him.” “Fair play; one at a time.” “He shall kiss 
the gal.” “He sha’n’t.” “It’s a shame.” “Knock 
the young rebels on the head,” — some attempting to 
drag the fellow away, some striving to prevent it. 
All who had been sitting at the table had sprung up 
and were joining in the scuffle, those who had been 
asleep on the floor were “picking themselves up” 
and staring around in the confusion of their sudden 
awakening, and there was every prospect of a general 
melee. 

Blows were beginning to be exchanged, and several 
of the combatants, extricating themselves from the 
crowd, made toward the muskets, which were stacked 
in the opposite corner of the room. This had been 
foreseen from the beginning, however, by the cooler 
heads of the party, and a dozen of them had formed 
themselves around the pile of arms, and stood quietly 
and firmly in a quarter-circle, whose arc bristled with 
bayonets from wall to wall. 

This was an unanswerable argument, which the 
others did not attempt to controvert, but turned back 
again, to resume the fight “pugnibus et calcibus.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


85 


By this time, however, a few of those who were 
nearest to being sober had interfered, and managed 
to separate the combatants and restore some kind of 
order. 

The whole affair did not occupy more than a couple 
of minutes, and the men resumed their places, some at 
the table and some on the floor. The girl, however, 
sat with her face buried in her hands, while her 
mother bent over her, striving to comfort her, and her 
brothers sat grinding their teeth in powerless rage. 

Frank had beheld the whole scene from the window, 
and at the moment the fellow stooped over the girl he 
was covered by the cocked horse-pistol in Frank’s 
hand. Another instant, and he would have fired ; but, 
while his forefinger was pressing the trigger, the two 
brothers had sprung directly into the line of fire ; and 
from that time, until tranquillity was restored, no op- 
portunity occurred for him to fire without imminent 
danger of hitting the wrong man. It gave him also 
an opportunity of recovering his coolness, which had 
at first been somewhat disturbed by his sudden wrath. 

“ Look’e here 1” said he, addressing nobody in par- 
ticular, and quietly uncocking the pistol; “by the 
hokey! well it wasn’t Bettle, ’stead o’ me, saw that 
rascal try to kiss Jenny Sanford; he’d a’ been among 
’em slap dash, an’ got his throat cut, sure. Blamed 
if I wasn’t nigh doin’ a desp’it foolish thing myself, 
to go to shoot him then. I reckon Bettle wouldn’t ’a’ 
thanked me much for takin’ that job off his hands, any- 
how. Now I’ll jest take a squint round the house an’ 
see if there’s any sentries out, an’ then back an’ re- 
port.” 

So saying, Frank moved cautiously around the 
8 


86 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


building, as noiselessly as a snake, and satisfied him- 
self that the Tories, in their fancied security, had over- 
looked this very important precaution. 

Hurrying back to where the troop were standing, he 
reported what he had seen to Clayton. 

“ Can we take them?” asked the latter; “or are they 
too strong? The men and horses are tired out, and 
not fit for fighting. I would like to save those people, 
too, particularly as thee says that Bettle is interested 
in the young woman. Suppose thee tells him, and 
sees what he thinks ” 

“No; reckon we’d best not tell him jest yet,” said 
Frank; “Bettle’s skin wouldn’t hold him, if he know’d 
it. He’ll fight hard enough, if there’s any fightin’ to 
be done, without knowin’ anything about it. But 
there needn’t be much fightin’, if we go to work 
right.” 

“ Well, what does thee propose ?” 

“ Why, look’e here : we don’t want to take ’em at 
all ; wouldn’t know what to do with ’em if we had 
’em ; but we can rout ’em off, an’ save old Tommy 
an’ the rest of ’em, jest as easy as snappin’ your 
fingers.” 

“How?” inquired Clayton. 

“ Why, I’ll tell you as we go along; leave a dozen 
o’ the men here, with the loose horses in front of ’em ; 
bring a dozen more up to the barn-yard, an’ put ’em 
behind the wall with their carbines — they must leave 
their horses out o’ sight, behind the barn — send half a 
dozen up the road, between the house an’ the Lan- 
caster road, an’ let me have the rest, an’ we’ll fix ’em 
good.” 

“ Be it so,” said Clayton. “ What next ?” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 87 

“ Tell you that as we go along,” said Frank. 

Clayton then ordered Barton to remain where he 
was with a dozen of his men, telling him to form the 
loose horses in front as suggested by Frank. The de- 
tachment for the barn-yard was sent forward under 
Wheeler, while Wetherill was sent to occupy the road 
above, and Bettle, with his men, accompanied Frank, 
at the latter’s request. Clayton also went with this 
detachment. A few minutes sufficed to place the dif- 
ferent parties at their respective posts and put them 
in possession of their orders. 

It was a ticklish thing to get Wetlierill’s detach- 
ment past the house without noise; but, partly by 
taking to the meadow, and partly owing to the noise in 
the house, where the Tories were now in high revel, it 
was accomplished successfully. 

The road ran nearly north and south, directly in 
front of the house. The barn was about fifty yards to 
the south of the house, with only the width of the barn- 
yard between it and the road. 

The men who occupied the latter were posted be- 
hind its northern wall, facing the house. 

Frank’s and Bettle’s men now dismounted, and, 
leaving their horses also behind the barn, with three 
men to guard them, stole quietly and noiselessly to 
the side of the house nearest the great road, which 
was about four or five hundred yards distant. When 
all was ready, Frank stole back to the corner of the barn- 
yard, and, picking up a small stone, flung it across the 
yard into the field beyond, where the guard was 
stationed with the horses. A moment or two after, a 
faint light was seen rising from that side of the barn. 
Frank waited another moment till the light grew 


88 


THE QUAKER PARTISAN’S. 


stronger and began to throw something of a glare 
upon the sky; then, yelling, “Fire! fire!” at the top 
of his voice, he ran at full speed toward the house 
and, banging and kicking at the door, he shouted 
again, — 

“Fire! Hello, there! The barn’s afire! — Turn 
out, Tommy Sanford, or your horses ’ll be roasted 
like rats !” 

The door was thrown open instantly, and out poured 
the disorderly crowd from the kitchen, intent upon 
saving their horses. Taking no notice of Frank, .who 
sprang a little oil one side to avoid being carried away 
by the rush, the whole party went helter-skelter to- 
ward the barn, receiving, when within twenty yards 
of the wall, the fire of a dozen carbines, right in their 
faces. They stopped short, completely bewildered; 
and, before they had recovered from their surprise, a 
dozen heads, magnified by the sudden fright into a 
hundred, were raised above the wall, and another 
volley from a dozen pistols came, sending them to the 
right about, in full stampede for the house. As they 
came near, they were met by another volley from door 
and window, when they dashed down the bank on 
which the house stood, and up the road, only to be 
turned again by the carbines of Wetherill’s men, who 
immediately moved down to the house and stationed 
themselves in front of it. 

The terrified fugitives ran in a confused crowd 
down the road past the barn, taking another discharge 
from the carbines of Wheeler’s men as they passed, 
and had the consolation, first, of seeing the dying 
flame of a pile of burnt brushwood which Frank’s 
quick eye had noted as he came up at first, and which 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


89 


he had made use of to raise all the hubbub, and then, 
as they slackened their pace for a moment, of hear- 
ing the cracking of a new dozen of carbines, and the 
whistling of the balls about their ears, from Barton’s 
division at the bridge. 

The next moment came the order “ Forward,” and 
then the tramp of galloping hoofs, and then the wild 
vision of a roadful of riderless horses coming upon 
them. They broke at once ; and, scrambling, leaping, 
tumbling over anyhow, across the fence and into the 
meadow, they ran for life, while the spare horses of 
the troop swept by like a small hurricane, trampling 
into a jelly one unlucky fellow, who had stumbled in 
his hurry and was unable to recover himself before 
they were upon him. 

As the fugitives cleared the fence, a quick, sharp 
order came from the rear. “Over, and head them 
off!” The pursuers wheeled promptly; but, to Bar- 
ton’s chagrin, the tired horses absolutely refused to 
take the leap, and, after two or three ineffectual at- 
tempts to spur them over, they were obliged to give 
it up, contenting themselves with sending a random 
discharge from their pistols after the now invisible 
enemy. They then rode to the house, where they 
found the rest of the troop collected, together with the 
loose horses which had been stopped by Wetherill’s 
men. 

As soon as the Tories had left the house, at the first 
alarm, Frank, Bettle, and Clayton, with the men under 
their command, had entered it, greatly to the alarm of 
the old farmer and his family, who supposed them, at 
first, to be another party of the enemy. 

The next instant, however, just as the first volley 
8 * 


90 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


from the barn-yard wall rattled on the air, Thomas 
Sanford recognized Frank, and at the same moment 
Jenny sprang from her seat, exclaiming, joyfully, — 

“Oh, father, it’s William! it’s William ! Now we’re 
safe !” and straightway gave vent to her joy in the 
most inconsistent manner, by clinging to Bettle’s neck 
and sobbing pitifully. Bettle sustained her, — it was 
necessary to put his arm around her waist to do 
it, — and whispered a great many consoling things, 
but in so low a voice that I really can’t tell what they 
were. 

Indeed, he was so pleasantly engaged that, for a 
wonder, he paid no attention to the fighting that was 
going on for the five minutes or so that succeeded 
their first entry into the house, hardly deigning to look 
around even at the discharge from the door and win- 
dows as the Tories rushed back from the barn. 

By the time the fray was over and the whole troop 
was assembled, Jenny had become sufficiently com- 
posed to be able to sit on her chair without the assist- 
ance of Bettle’s arm, and the farmer, turning to Frank, 
inquired, — 

“ How did thee manage to be here just at the right 
time? I thought thee was in Philadelphy.” 

“ Don’t you know me well enough yet, Uncle 
Tommy,” said Frank, “to know that I’m always 
where people don’t expect to find me ? Look’e here ; 
if we hadn’t been whipped down at Brummadgem, an* 
had to run for it, I reckon you’d ha’ been in an ugly 
fix ” 

“ Whipped!” interrupted one of the brothers; “ we 
heard the firin’, and knew there must be somethin’ 
goin’ on. But where’s the rest of the army?” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


91 


lt Gone to Chester or Hook ; don’ know which,” said 
Frank. 

“ Then the country will be too hot to hold you,” 
said Thomas, “and us too, after this night’s work.” 

“ I reckon we'll make it hot enough to burn any- 
body’s fingers that meddles with us,” said Frank. 
“But look’e here, Uncle Tommy; there’s forty men of 
us here, and sixty hosses, that hain’t tasted bit or sup 
since noon, an’ done a good deal o’ hard fightin, be- 
sides. Got anything in the house to eat, an’ some 
cider or whisky, an’ some fodder for the beasts ? 
We’re all mortal hungry an’ dry.” 

“We have plenty in house and barn,” said the 
old man; “only we haven’t room to put up the 
horses.” 

“Never mind that,” said Frank; “toss it out on 
the ground, an’ the hosses ’ll take care o’ themselves.” 

The two sons then went out with Frank to procure 
food and water for the horses, while Jenny and her 
mother busied themselves in preparing supper for their 
unexpected guests. 

This Frank Lightfoot, who has figured rather promi- 
nently in the events I have detailed so far, is worth a 
more particular description than I have as yet given 
him. 

He was an old Indian-fighter, having been a wagon- 
boy in Braddock’s army at the defeat of the latter near 
Fort Duquesne, in the month of July, 1 T 55. He had 
seen his elder brother, a teamster, shot down by his 
side at the first volley from the bushes, and, seizing the 
musket of a fallen soldier, had at once thrown himself 
into the ranks of the Virginians under Washington, — 
the only corps in the whole army that had the slight- 


92 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


est idea of how to manage such an affair, and who were 
already scattering among the trees, — and had done a 
man’s full share in the work of saving the besotted 
regulars, and such of their officers as survived the mur- 
derous storm of rifle-balls which were pouring into 
their solid ranks. 

From the day of that disastrous blunder of old-fogy- 
ism, to the commencement of the Revolution, he had 
employed himself as a scout and Indian-fighter, attach- 
ing himself as a volunteer to every expedition that was 
sent against the savages, and always rendering valu- 
able service by his skill and daring, and his intimate 
knowledge of all the stratagems used by those most 
perplexing of all enemies. 

He was, at the time he joined Clayton’s troop, about 
thirty-five years of age ; thin, wiry, with one of those 
prematurely seamed, old-looking faces which you some- 
times see upon young men, sallow in complexion, with 
strong black hair, and burning black eyes gleaming 
from under it; with iron muscles, and no nerves at all; 
he would ride, if necessary, for forty hours at a stretch, 
without sleep or food, except a biscuit now and then, 
and a draught of water. No fatigue seemed to exhaust 
him, and no danger deterred him in carrying out orders. 
He was attached to Barton’s division of the troop, and 
was his right-hand man, the one to whom he always 
looked whenever anything of difficulty or danger was 
to be undertaken. 

He was also a great favorite with Bettle, to whom 
he was strongly attached ; the two, though of such 
unequal age and education, being drawn together by 
some occult sympathy of their dare-devil temperaments, 
and having now the Sanford family, with whom Frank 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


93 


had lived previously to his enlistment, as a further 
bond of union. 

Bettle had by no means made him a confidant as to 
his feelings toward Jenny, but from some expressions 
he had let drop, at different times, after his return from 
his expedition in July, Frank, with his natural acute- 
ness, had no difficulty in seeing how matters stood. 

To resume. After supper, the tired men and horses 
passed the rest of the night in the sound sleep they so 
much needed after their stormy day ; the former on the 
barn-floor, which John and Mahlon Sanford had covered 
thickly with hay thrown from the mow, and the latter 
on the ground outside. 

Jenny had left the room as soon as possible after 
supper was ready, feeling decidedly embarrassed at the 
demonstration she had almost unconsciously made 
when she first saw Bettle. 

The officers were accommodated with rooms so far 
as could be done in a house that had only two unoc- 
cupied, one of which belonged to the farmer’s two sons, 
who had volunteered to stand guard for the rest of the 
night ; and in a few minutes nothing was heard but the 
long, heavy respirations of the tired sleepers, through 
which rasped harshly, audible all through the house, 
the prodigious snore of Mike away up in the garret 
under the roof. 

The brothers stood on guard until after sunrise, but 
no further disturbance took place. The eventful scenes 
of the next twenty-four hours, however, we must leave 
for another chapter. 


CHAPTER VII. 


By the time the sky began to redden over old De- 
borah’s rock, with the reflected light from the east, 
Frank was up, and out in the open air. He was arest- 
less fellow, that Frank ; getting awake at all manner 
of unseasonable times, and sleeping, when he did sleep, 
only by short naps, and as lightly as a weasel. He 
had acquired, perforce, in his exposed and adventurous 
life, two other faculties in this connection, which had 
more than once been of signal value to him, — the power 
of going to sleep at a minute’s notice, anywhere, and 
the power of waking at any moment he chose, and of 
staying awake for almost any indefinite length of 
time. 

He had slept longer than was usual with him on 
this occasion, for even his cast-steel frame had felt 
the effects of the tremendous labor of the day and 
evening. He was the first one out, however, leaving 
all the rest, officers and men, in profound slumber. 

He found John and Mahlon Sanford still on guard, 
patrolling up and down, each with one of the Tories’ 
muskets on his shoulder. It was light enough by this 
time to see distinctly, and the first things that caught 
Frank’s eye were the dead bodies of five of the Tories 
lying a short distance from the barn-yard wall, as they 
had fallen before the two volleys fired from behind it. 
Two more were lying in front of the house, and in the 
( 94 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


95 


middle of the road lay the unfortunate fellow who had 
been run down and trampled to death by the horses. 

“ Look’e here, boys,” said he to the two brothers, 
“s’posin’ we git these here corpusses out o’ the way 
afore your mother an’ Jenny comes out. No use in 
them a-seein’ ’em. Let’s drag ’em round behind the 
barn, an’ after breakfast we’ll have ’em buried.” 

This was done, the propriety of the suggestion being 
manifest ; though the young men, less accustomed than 
Frank to the sight of dead bodies, went about the 
ghastly business with- undisguised repugnance. 

As they came back to remove the last one, they 
found Mike standing over it, looking first at it and 
then at Frank, in a state of utter bewilderment. 

“Arrah, now, Misther Frank, an’ is it yerself that’s 
here! an’ what’s the matther, anyhow?” 

“Matter, you dunderhead!” said Frank; “where 
were you last night, that you don’t know what’s the 
matter ?” 

“ Where was I, is it ? Sure, an’ wasn’t I aslape in 
me own paceful bed, all the blessed night ?” 

“ Well, if you could sleep through all the firin’ that 
was goin’ on, you’ve got more lead in your brains than 
I thought,” said Mahlon. 

“Firin’, is it?” said Mike, slowly; “well, now, I 
thought I heard some noise wanst, an’ I was goin’ to 
git up an’ see what it was ; an’ thin jist as I got up, 
d’ye see, I didn’t git up at all, be rason that the slape 
was heavy on me ; an’ thin, afore I know’d it, I was 
down agin, an’ divil a haporth did I know till I got 
awake a little while ago, an’ seen John an’ Mally here 
a- walkin’ up an’ down wid guns on their showlthers, 
an’ all the horses lyin’ about; an’ thin I got drissed an> 


96 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


harried down, an’ bedad they were gone whin I kem ; 
an’ I saw this poor fellow a-lyin’ in the road, an’ I 
was lookin’ at ’im an’ thryin’ to make it all out, when 
yees kem up.” 

“ Look’e here, Mike,” said Frank, “you must ’list 
in the reg’lar line for a sentry. Here’s the house tuk 
by Tories, a battle fit in an’ round it, the Tories druv 
off, an’ you slep’ through it all. Just the fellow for a 
reg’lar sentry. Here, bear a hand, an’ let’s git this 
carron out o’ the way afore anybody sees it.” 

“ But how did you git here yerself, Misther Frank?” 
inquired Mike, as they returned toward the house; 
“an’ who was it druv off the Tories ?” 

“ Come last night, with what was left o’ the troop, 
from Brummadgem.” 

“ The throop 1” said Mike, in amazement. “ Is it 
the throop that’s here ? Sure, I wonthered where 
all the horses kem frum. Is Misther Bettle among 
’em?” 

“ Yes,” said Frank. 

“An’ that rampin’ divil of a horse of his 1 Be the 
powers, Misther Frank, but ye ought to have seen the 
fright he gev me whin he was here in harvest.” 

“Yes, I heard somethin’ about that,” said Frank. 
“You tried the wise trick of lashin’ him ’cause he 
flung you. If it hadn’t been for Bettle, you’d ha’ been 
a dead man. He’s got the same hoss here now ; you’d 
better keep clear of him.” 

“Bedad, I’ll do that same,” said Mike, as they 
walked toward the house. 

Clayton and his officers were seated within, en- 
gaged in close consultation about something which 
did not appear to be of a very pleasant nature, judg- 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 97 

ing from the knit brows and grave, earnest tones of the 
speakers. 

As Frank appeared at the door, Clayton called him 
within. 

“ Does thee know this country well ?” he inquired ; 
“ I am informed that there is a large force of Tories in 
the neighborhood, of which those we routed last night 
were only a detachment. I had rather avoid a fight 
at present, particularly against odds, if it can be done.” 

“ How many are they, Uncle Tommy ?” asked Frank, 
addressing Thomas Sanford. 

“About two hundred, Riah Wood’r’t told me. 
They’re stationed at his mill just up the creek ; thee 
knows where it is.” 

“Reckon I do; ’bout quarter of a mile above the 
cold spring. If there’s that many, we’d better git 
away from this without losin’ time. They’re too strong 
for us.” 

“ If they knowowr strength, they are,” said Wetherill ; 
“but I rather think they were too much frightened last 
night to have much idea of our number : headed olf in 
so many directions, I think it more likely they will 
suppose us to be four or five times as strong as we are.” 

“They may do that,” said Clayton, “but the truth 
will soon be discovered. Besides, our ammunition 
must be short; how much did thee say there was, 
Levi?” he added, addressing Barton. 

“Six rounds apiece for the carbines, and about 
twice as many for the pistols.” 

“Not quite so bad as I feared,” said Clayton. 

“We have the cartridge-boxes of the Tories, too.” 

“ Plenty of powder, but no balls that will go in our 
pieces. We might use their muskets, it is true, but 
9 


98 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


with our numbers we could only make a fight behind 
shelter, and when the ammunition was exhausted we 
would be at their mercy. Nevertheless, we’ll take the 
cartridges with us.” 

“Why, there’s Mary Woodward!” exclaimed Jenny, 
suddenly, pointing to the figure of a girl on horseback, 
who was approaching at a rapid gallop along the road ; 
“ she must have something to tell, or she wouldn’t be 
coming over so early in the morning.” 

The girl came up at a sharp gallop, and, checking 
her horse, without dismounting, exclaimed, “Father 
sent me over to tell you to leave at once ! They know 
how weak you are, and as soon as the men have had 
their breakfast they’ll be over and attack you, with 
Black Rawdon at their head. They’ll be here in an 
hour. ” 

“A good deal can be done in an hour,” said Clayton; 
“but there’s no time to lose. Have the horses got 
ready, Frank ; we must eat our breakfast in the saddle. 
The loose horses had better be left behind: they will 
only encumber us.” 

In a few minutes the troop was in the saddle. 

“Now,” said Clayton, addressing Thomas Sanford, 
“one thing more ; it won’t do for thee and thy people 
to remain here if the Tories are coming back. They 
will revenge last night’s work on anybody they may 
find. Has thee any plan in view?” 

“No,” said Thomas, “ there’s nothing that I can do; 
there are plenty of neighbors where we would be wel- 
come, but we would be no safer than here, and would 
draw them into danger besides. No, we must take 
what comes.” 

“You’ll take what comes to us,” said Clayton: “if 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


99 


we escape, you escape; if we are cut off or taken, it 
may be that you will have to share the lot with us ; 
rot if we can help it, though, even then. Whatever 
may befall us, you shall be saved, if possible.” 

It was then arranged that the old farmer, his wife, 
and Jenny should go forward at once under the escort 
of Bettle and what remained of his division, — some 
fourteen or fifteen, including ’Riah Woodward’s three 
sons and four of the other men he had obtained 
on his former visit, — under Frank’s guidance. Two 
of the farmer’s horses were already equipped with 
side-saddles, and Bettle felt a pleasant glow of pride 
as he saw how lightly and gracefully Jenny sprang to 
her seat from Frank’s hand and gathered up the reins, 
and how easily but steadily she sat in the saddle. Her 
mother mounted in a more staid and sober manner, 
as became a matron of advancing years and com- 
fortable ponderosity; but, once in the saddle, she was 
evidently nearly as much at home there as her daughter. 

All being now ready, Frank started with his party, 
and, proceeding down the road as far as the bars near 
the little bridge, turned at once into the cornfield, 
carefully putting up the bars after all had passed, and 
made for the woods, intending to keep as much as pos- 
sible under cover until they reached the place he had 
indicated as a rendezvous. This was a spring, a little 
more than a quarter of a mile south of the old Lan- 
caster road, which I have already mentioned, but which 
is now better known as the Strasburg road, and just at 
the western edge of West Chester. 

The spring lay in a little hollow, between the present 
State road and Market Street, and was at that time 
surrounded by woods, which covered a considerable 


100 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


portion of the country, particularly to the south and 
west. 

Heading well southward until they struck the run 
which flows from the spring and empties into the 
Brady wine at Jefferis’ Ford, they followed the course 
of the stream, only deviating from it where it passed 
through open meadows, and carefully avoiding the 
traveled roads. 

All this care was owing partly to Frank’s habitual 
caution, and partly to the fact that he had a strong 
suspicion that the route of the British would lie some- 
where in this direction. Even should the main body 
not cross in the neighborhood, he felt very sure there 
would be enough foraging parties prowling about to 
make it advisable to keep out of sight as much as 
possible. 

They were proceeding in this cautious manner, with 
Frank about fifty yards in advance, on foot, when they 
saw him stop suddenly near the side of a narrow cart- 
road which ran across the course they were pursuing, 
throw himself down with his ear to the ground for a 
moment, and then, springing up, wave them back- 
with his hand, and swarm like a squirrel up the trunk 
of a tall hickory-tree that almost overhung the path. 

The party stopped instantly, and the three farm- 
horses, with their riders, were led behind a clump of 
saplings which stood near, and which screened them 
effectually from view at any distance. In the mean 
time, the trained horses of the troop, at the word of 
command, had crouched flat on the ground, each with 
his rider lying behind him, with carbine unslung and 
sword hanging at his wrist. In this position, a slight 
rise in the ground prevented them from seeing the 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


101 


road, and they lay there in grim silence, awaiting such 
signal as Frank might give. 

A few moments of anxious suspense followed, and 
Bettle was about to move forward to a position whence 
he could command the road, when suddenly a light 
step was heard among the trees to one side, and the 
next moment Frank appeared. 

“What is it, Frank?” said Bettle. “British or 
Tories ?” 

“ Red coats,” said Frank. “ A hundred reg’lars 
a-comin’ double file down the road yonder. Git the 
women furder back among the trees. We’re all too 
near.” 

“Is there time ?” asked Bettle, anxiously. 

“ Time enough if we don’t stand blatherin’ about 
it, but git to work. They’re quarter of a mile off 
yet.” 

Orders were at once given accordingly, and the troop- 
ers retreated rapidly and silently until they reached a 
spot about a hundred yards baqk, where the trees 
were thicker and the ground overgrown with bushes. 

As soon as Frank had given his information, Bettle 
had gone to where Jenny and her parents were wait- 
ing anxiously. 

“ We must go deeper into the w r oods,” he said, 
calmly, “ as there is a party of British near us that I 
had rather avoid just now.” 

“ Is there danger, does thee think?” inquired Martha 
Sanford. 

“No, not if we are prudent; but we had better 
move.” So saying, he took the bridle of Jenny’s 
horse, and the whole party moved forward, the men 
accompanying them in close order on either side and 
9 * 


102 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


in the rear, until they reached the spot already men- 
tioned, where the troop-horses again crouched down 
like cats among the bushes, with their riders behind 
them. 

The farm-horses, not having been trained to this, 
remained standing, and Bettle wasted no time in vain 
attempts to make them lie down, but, turning to the 
nearest man, said, with a slight gesture toward Jenny 
and her parents, — 

“ Woodward, lead their horses down into the hollow 
there around the bend of the run, and stay there until 
you hear a whistle. If there is but one, come back; 
if there are two, make ready for a start, but keep close ; 
if you hear three, wait for nothing more, but run ! their 
safety will depend on you then.” 

Woodward took his post at once, and was about to 
lead them off, when Jenny beckoned to Bettle, who 
immediately stepped to her side. 

“Is thee going with us?” she whispered, bending 
down toward him. . 

“No, Jenny,” said he; “my place is here among my 
men.” 

“So is mine, then,” said she: “if there is danger, 
why shouldn’t I share it ?” 

“It would do no good, Jenny; it would only un- 
nerve me and the men to have you exposed to danger. 
I hope they will pass by without seeing us ; but they 
may see our tracks and follow them, and then a tree- 
fight will be inevitable, and you would lose your life 
without accomplishing any good whatever — or, what 
is a great deal worse, you may fall alive into hands 
that know neither honor nor pity. No, no, Jenny, you 
must be as safe as I can make you, or I can do nothing. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


103 


You may pray for us all, if you will, for if it comes to 
a fight we’ll need it.” 

“Thee-is right, William; I’ll go,” said Jenny, press- 
ing his hand, ‘‘and I’ll pray that their eyes may be 
held, so that we may escape without bloodshed.” 

Several precious moments were lost in this conver- 
sation, and Bettle watched the receding figures with a 
great deal more anxiety than he had manifested while 
talking, until they turned the bend of the stream and 
passed out of sight. 

As he crouched down by his horse, he could hear 
the regular heavy tramp of what was evidently a con- 
siderable body of men passing along the road below, 
though, owing to the nature of the ground, he could 
see nothing. 

Frank, however, had already climbed the tree be- 
hind which Bettle lay, and, completely hidden from 
view by the leaves and branches, was watching the 
enemy closely. 

Suddenly came from the road the command, “Halt!” 

Bettle gave a light tap on the tree with his sword- 
hilt, which was immediately answered from above. 

“ What are they doing ?” he inquired, in a low voice, 
laying his mouth close to the trunk, that the sound 
might be better transmitted. 

“’Xaminin’ the tracks,” said Frank, in the same 
tone ; and then continued, “ Lay low: they’re looking 
this way ; now they’re tryin’ t‘o count ’em ; there’s four 
or five of ’em working up on the trail; now they’ve lost 
it again.” 

“Well?” said Bettle, as Frank paused. 

“ Now they’ve gone back to talk to the officer ; they’re 
pointin’ this way; the officer’s a-comin’ this way him- 


104 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


self, now; no, lie’s stopped, an’s shakin’ his head; now 
he’s gone back, an’ the men are formin’ agin.” 

“ Fall in, men, fall in,” came the order, in an impa- 
tient tone, from below; “we’ve no time to get into an 
ambuscade hunting rebels in the woods, if there are 
any there at all. Fall in ; forward, march !” 

To Bettle’s intense relief, the steady tramp became 
audible again, and in a few minutes passed out of 
hearing. 

Frank slid down from the tree. 

“That was a mighty close graze,” said he, coolly; 
t( reckon they’d ha’ treed us, sure, if old Eli Flint had 
been with ’em an’ got holt o’ one end of a trail like they 
did, an’ he’d ha’ told how many there was of us, too.” 

“Who’s Eli Flint?” said Bettle. 

“An old fellow-scout o’ mine, an’ the best hand on 
a blind trail I ever seen. He could find sign where an 
Injin himself couldn’t, and he’d follow it like a hound. 
But I reckon we’d better git on.” 

“ Yes,” said Bettle, “we’ve lost time enough; I want 
to reach the spring by noon.” 

While all this was going on, the party in the thicket 
were waiting the result, straining their ears to hear 
any sound that might indicate the course events were 
taking. 

The first sound they heard was a low whistle. 

“ What’s that?” inquired Thomas Sanford, hastily. 

“ Leftenant Bettle’s call,” said Woodward, shortly. 
“ ’St ! Listen if another comes.” 

No other came, however, and Woodward, exclaim- 
ing, “All’s right, then,” prepared to return with his 
charge, when there was a rustling in the bushes be- 
hind him, and a large dog sprang from them to the 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


105 


side of Jenny’s horse, and with a joyful whine rose 
upon his hind legs, and, placing his fore-paws upon 
the skirt of her riding-dress, rubbed his black muzzle 
fondly against the hand which was now patting his 
head. 

“Why, Carlo, what brought thee here?” said 
Jenny. 

“ Sure enough,” muttered Woodward, compressing 
his lips, “ what did bring him here ? Well, we’ll see 
directly.” 

They now left their concealment and joined the 
others, Carlo frisking about his old friends the farm- 
horses. 

“Frank,” said Woodward, “just search about the 
dog : he ain’t here for nothing.” 

“Here, Carlo,” said Frank; and, as the dog came 
close to him and stood by his side, he noticed a slight 
bulge in one part of the leathern collar, around which 
a bit of twine was tied. Slipping his finger beneath, 
he discovered a folded scrap of paper. Detaching and 
opening it, he handed it to Bettle, who read, roughly 
traced with a pencil:— 

“ The Tories are on us, two hundred strong. We 
have gained the rock, and can hold it for a little while. 
If there is any place where Thomas and his family can 
be placed in safety, leave them and come back; if not, 
push on to Philadelphia with all speed, and bring 
such help as thee can, as soon as they are safe. 

“ Clayton.” 

The dog had evidently swum the Brandywine, for 
the paper was wet, and so discolored by the wet leather 
of the collar that Bettle had at first some difficulty in 
making it out. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Here was a complication of the business, with a 
vengeance ! What was to be done ? With his already 
weakened force reduced by one-third, and that third 
composed of the best fighters in the troop, Clayton, 
though his position on the rock was a strong one, was 
in by no means an enviable situation. 

He had left the house with his force, soon after the 
departure of Frank and his party, but had not pro- 
ceeded a hundred yards down the road, before the 
Tories emerged from the wood near the house and in- 
stantly gave chase. At least they thought they were 
giving chase. 

But the small body of men in advance of them did 
not seem to have reached the same conclusion ; for, as 
the Tories came within some sixty or. seventy yards of 
them, they halted, faced about, and delivered their fire 
in a volley which cut sharply among their ranks. 

The whole body halted for an instant, staggered, not 
so much by the fire itself as by the cool hardihood and 
effrontery of the handful of men from whom it came. 
The halt was but momentary, however, and the next 
moment saw Clayton and his men in the meadow which 
lay between the road and the Brandywine, making at 
full speed for the creek. Some fifty of the Tories, who 
were mounted, leaped into the meadow at the same 
moment, and there was a desperate race across it, one 
( 106 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


107 


party making for the creek, the other trying to head 
them off and turn them back upon the footmen, who 
had by this time formed along the road and were 
keeping up a brisk but ineffectual fire upon the flying 
troop. 

Disregarding the fire both from the road and from 
the horsemen, which their rapid motion rendered harm- 
less, Clayton and his men spurred toward the stream, 
and reached the bank about thirty yards ahead of their 
pursuers, who, not so well mounted, had lost ground 
in the endeavor to bear down upon their flank and turn 
them. 

The foremost rider, — Clayton was in the rear, the 
commander’s place in a retreat, — as he reached the 
bank, spurred his horse at it, without a moment’s 
check or hesitation, and went into the water with a 
flying leap that carried him at once twenty feet from 
the bank. He knew the stream, however, and had 
selected a spot where the water was shallower than 
it was higher up and nearer the rock. Even there, 
however, it reached nearly to the horse’s girths. The 
whole troop followed him, spreading out, however, 
both to avoid striking each other as they leaped, and 
to present a less compact mark for the fire of the 
Tories’ pistols as they were crossing. 

The next minute the horses were leaping and scram- 
bling up the opposite bank like cats. As the last one 
gained his footing on the firm ground, Clayton, who 
was still in the stream, halted for a moment to look 
around at his pursuers. 

Their horses, the ordinary farm-cattle of the neigh- 
borhood, which they had seized and pressed into their 
service, were swerving from the leap, and rearing and 


108 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


plunging as their riders strove to spur them over the 
bank. Clayton’s men also halted, standing in the open 
order in which they had reached the land. 

The leader of the Tories, an old campaigner, — none of 
your militia captains, — reined up his horse upon the 
other bank, and, leveling his pistol at Clayton, fired ; 
the ball grazed his ear, but did no harm beyond draw- 
ing a drop or two of blood. 

“ Thee ought to do better than that, so near,” said 
Clayton, in his cool, grave way. “ I’ll give thee a les- 
son.” And, leveling his own pistol in turn, he fired. 

He was not in the habit of missing his aim, and the 
Tory leader would have reached the end of his fighting 
on the spot, had he not, with a readiness that showed 
practice, at the instant he saw Clayton raising his hand, 
forced his horse to rear. The ball struck the poor brute 
just in front of the girth, and he rolled over with his 
rider upon the grass. 

While the latter was recovering himself, Clayton 
reached the bank, and put .his troop in motion. 

By this time two or three of the enemy had forced 
their horses into the water, when the rest followed 
without hesitation, and the whole body were crossing 
the stream ; the footmen also had reached it farther 
down, and were crossing. 

Clayton might possibly have escaped, but his plan 
from the first had been to gain the rock, not being 
willing to risk a long chase or running fight, in the 
tired condition of his horses ; for, though the few hours 
they had slept on the preceding night had refreshed 
them a little, they still needed rest. He knew the rock 
and its capabilities for defense pretty well, from de- 
scriptions Bettle had given him ; and, with the prompt- 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


109 


ness which was one of his characteristics, he had taken 
the bold resolution, the moment he saw the enemy, to 
reach it if possible, and hold it until his horses were 
rested or help came. Twenty-four hours would do for 
the former ; less might bring the latter. 

Turning to Mahlon Sanford, who was riding beside 
him, he inquired if he knew any path by which they 
could reach the top with horses, without going around 
by the ridge. 

“Yes,” answered the boy, promptly : “ when Bettle 
was here in the summer, I told him there was none; 
but since then me an’ John’s been tryin’ the place to 
see if there was, an’ we found one where I think we can 
get up. It’s pretty rough, though. Are the beasts sure- 
footed ?” 

“As squirrels,” said Clayton. 

“ Then we can do it,” said the boy. “ Can’t we, 
John?” 

John nodded, and they rode rapidly on to the foot of 
the rock. 

There was no time to lose, for the enemy’s horsemen 
had already reached the bank, and were in motion 
toward them, a little more cautiously, however, now 
that they were near the shelter of the trees with which 
the back and sides of the rock were at that time covered, 
while the footmen, who had also crossed, were pushing 
forward from below. 

Placing the two Sanfords in front, and taking the 
rear himself, he gave the word, and they moved forward 
on their break-neck expedition. 

Up they toiled, now scrambling over moss-grown 
boulders, now leaping over fallen tree-trunks, the horses 
in advance, following the one which Mahlon was lead- 
10 


110 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS . . 


ing, the men on foot covering the rear, and holding the 
enemy in check with their carbines, until they reached 
the top, breathless. 

Here, for the time, they were safe ; for, as Bettle had 
said, they could have held it, with plenty of ammunition 
and provisions, against an army. 

“Now,” said Clayton to Wheeler, dryly, “I want 
to send a message to Bettle. If thee can tell me how 
to do it, I’ll be obliged to thee.” 

“ I can tell thee how to do it,” said Mahlon ; “ jest 
thee write it down, and I’ll send -it.” 

Clayton looked at him, but he was evidently in 
earnest ; and accordingly he tore a leaf out of a small 
memorandum-book, and hastily scribbled down the 
note which ended the last chapter, and handed it to 
Mahlon. The latter immediately fastened it in the 
way I have described to the collar of the dog Carlo, 
who had accompanied them throughout the whole 
scene. 

“ There, now, Carlo,” said he, when he had secured 
the paper, “ sik Jenny ; sik ’em out, old boy ; hi on 1” 

The dog looked up with his bright, intelligent eyes 
into the boy’s face as he spoke, and then started down 
the hill, running the gauntlet of the enemy’s fire, but 
escaping without a scratch, crossed the stream, and 
made directly for the house, where, after smelling 
around for a few moments, he gave a short, quick bark 
or two, started off at a gallop with his nose to the 
ground, and came up with the fugitives just late 
enough to avoid betraying them to the regulars who 
had passed along the road below. 

When Bettle had read the note to himself, he read 
it to Frank. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


Ill 


“By the hokev!” said the latter, “look’e here! 
we’re in what old Eli used to call a ‘corn-twisted 
diffikilty;’ we can’t leave the folks here; if we take 
’em on to Philadelfy, it’s a chance if they don’t chaw 
up the whole troop afore we can git back — Stay! I 
know a place off here, right in the woods, out o’ the 
way o’ stragglers, where they’ll be safe enough till we 
can come for ’em.” 

“ Whose place is it ?” said Bettle. 

“Why, long Johnny Mac Allan’s,” said Frank; “ef 
I hadn’t had my skull so full of other things, I’d ha’ 
thunk o’ him at first.” 

“ Will he be willing to run any risk 

“Well, I reckon he won’t trouble himself much 
about that ; he’ll take ’em if I ask him ; an’ I’d like to 
see the man that ’d meddle with anybody he promised 
to take keer of.” 

“We must try him,” said Bettle ; and then, approach- 
ing Jenny, he read the note to her, saying, “I’m 
afraid we must go back at once, Jenny; Frank knows 
a place here in the woods where you can all stay in 
safety until we return, or until the coast is clear, so 
that you can get home again. It is at the house of an 
acquaintance of his, named Mac Allan.” 

“I’ve heard of him,” said Jenny, “and if Frank 
says so, and thee thinks best, we ought to go. I’ll tell 
father about it. ” 

She communicated the state of affairs briefly Jo her 
father, to whom, also, Bettle read the note. 

“ I know Mac Allan well,” said the old man; “it’s 
the best thing we can do; thee must go back at once 
to the rock, and help the captain.” 

Nothing more was said, and the party struck off into 


112 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


the woods toward Mac Allan’s house, which was about 
a quarter of a mile off. 

It was a tolerably large, but rudely-built, log house, 
with perhaps half an acre of cleared ground around it. 
As they emerged from the wood upon this open space, 
they were greeted by the open-mouthed rush of half a 
dozen savage bull-dogs at them, while Frank’s eye, 
which never missed anything, detected the muzzles of 
two or three rifles poking out from loop-holes in the 
wall. 

. First speaking to the dogs, who recognized his voice 
and stopped, though they eyed his companions sus- 
piciously, he called, ‘‘Hello, Johnny, take down them 
shootin’-irons an’ come out ; I want to speak to you. 
Ha’ you forgot Frank Lightfoot a’ready ?” 

The door opened, and a tall man stepped out ; one of 
those long, double-jointed, broad-shouldered, big-footed, 
big-fisted, slab-sided fellows, in whom all grace and 
symmetry have been sacrificed to make room for a 
double quantity of simple sledge-hammer strength. 

“Why, Frank,” said he, in a voice a good deal 
milder and smoother than his appearance indicated, 
“ why, Frank, is that you ? And Tommy Sanford, I 
swan 1 What’s the matter? What’s brung you all into 
the woods this mornin’?” 

“ ’Cause we wanted to get the wimmen-folks out o’ 
Black Rawdon’s clutches, an’ we wa’n’t strong enough 
to fight him.” 

“ Black Rawdon ! Is he up in the neighbor- 
hood ? That’s a bad lookout, sure. How many men 
has he?” 

“ Why, about two hundred; an’ that ain’t the worst; 
look’e here, Johnny ; he’s got the captain, with only 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


113 


about twenty five men, treed on Deborah’s Rock; we 
jest got word by old Carlo here.” 

“How?” 

“By old Carlo; note fastened to his collar.” 

“My sakes alive!” said the old man, “that’s wus 
an’ more of it. What are ye goin’ to do ? Who’s these 
with you ? Part of the troop ?” 

“Yes,” said Frank, in a low voice ; “the officer’s 
one o’ the leftenants, — Bettle. We want you to take 
charge o’ the wimmen-folks an’ the old man, an’ keep 
’em safe while we go back to the rock; for the captain 
’ll want all the help we can give him. Will you do it?” 

“Certain,” said Mac Allan; “light down, folks, an’ 
come into the house.” 

They did so, and, after seeing them safely within, 
Bettle went to the old man, and, taking his hand, said, 
earnestly, — 

“ Now, John, will you take care of them truly and 
faithfully? Will you defend them as you would your 
own family, while you can fire a shot or strike a 
blow? I’m not a man to forget those who show kind- 
ness to me or those I care for.” 

Mac Allan looked hard at Bettle for a moment, and 
then glanced with a look of interrogation at Frank, 
who answered it with a wink and a slight screw of his 
head. 

“ We’ll take care of ’em, leftenant ; never fear : if we 
can’t do it by fightin’, I’ve got a place to hide ’em in 
that all the Tories in the country couldn’t find.” 

“ Well,” said Bettle, who had already bidden Jenny 
good-by, “ then we’ll go back as fast as we can, and ” 

“Wait a bit,” said Mac Allan; “I reckon you won’t 
be any wus off for a little extra help.” And, taking 
10 * 


114 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


down a tin horn that hung by the door, he blew a long 
blast on it; it was answered in a minute or two by the 
appearance of ten stalwart young men, all of the same 
powerful, double-jointed frame as the speaker. 

“There,” said he, “there’s ten boys that can bark a 
squirrel off a tree an’ never raise the fur. Boys, git 
your rifles an’ powder-horns ; we’re goin’ to Brandy- 
wine to have a lick at Black Rawdon an’ his gang.” 

“All right, dad ; hurray!” shouted the boys, as they 
hurried into the house, and reappeared directly, each 
armed with a long, heavy rifle and accouterments, and 
with a tomahawk in his belt. 

“But,” said Bettle, “won’t this leave the place 
without protection in case of attack?” 

“ What ! with the old woman an’ the three gals, 
that can all handle a rifle as well as I can, or the 
boys? I’d like to see the rapscallions git in while 
they’re there! Never fear, leftenant ; the gal an’ the 
old folks ’ll be as safe as if they were in the middle of 
Washington’s camp.” 

“All right,” whispered Frank, answering a look from 
Bettle ; “ I know ’em all ; the old woman an’ the gals ’ll 
fight like she-painters, an’ they’re as cunnin’ as Injuns. 
We’ll find em all safe, if we ever git back.” 

The old man then went into the house to give final 
directions to his wife and daughters. When he came 
out again, the party, strengthened by this valuable ad- 
dition to their force, moved rapidly back through the 
woods toward the Brandywine, heading, however, for 
Jefferis’ Ford, which they crossed, and proceeded up the 
west bank of the river, keeping in the woods with 
which the country at that day was pretty much 
covered. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


115 


On the way, Frank gave Mac Allan a description of 
the events of the preceding day and night, which occu- 
pied the time until they reached the neighborhood of 
the rock. The old man listened attentively, giving a 
slight grunt now and then, until Bettle ordered a halt. 

“ You know the country, Woodward,” said he to one 
of ’Riah’s boys, who was riding near him. “ How near 
can we get to the rock without being seen ?” 

“ Within a hundred yards ; but not now. We must 
wait till night.” 

“ I want to let the captain know we’re in the neigh- 
borhood,” said Bettle. “ Can you get around so as to 
let him hear you whistle from above, near the ford?” 

“Yes,” said the young man, “I can do that; an’ if 
you’ll let me have Jim and Harry 

“Your brother and Dandy Harry?” 

“ Yes ; let us all go, and we can raise the whistle in 
three different places ; I want to puzzle Black Raw- 
don’s men, and lead' ’em off on a wild-goose chase, if 
I can. After we’ve whistled, I’ll go up to the mill 
and let Mary know we’re about. She’s a quick-witted 
girl, and may be able to help us a good deal.” 

Permission having been given, the three young men 
started together, on foot, and before many minutes a 
long, clear whistle, more like the shriek of a small 
locomotive than any sound coming from human lungs 
and lips, was heard from the direction of the ford ; 
another came from the old Lancaster road ; and a 
third from the woods at some distance west of the 
rock. Almost simultaneously with the last they heard 
an answering whistle from the top of the rock, show- 
ing that the party there had heard and understood the 
signal. 




CHAPTER IX. 

On reaching the top of the rock, Clayton had seen 
all its capabilities at a glance. He saw that there was 
hardly a possibility of reaching it, in the face of an 
enemy of anything like ordinary vigilance, from any 
point except the back of the narrow ridge I have 
already described. This could be barricaded, and must 
be barricaded, or the Tories could come up in full 
strength and drive them bodily over the face of the 
precipice. It was a miserably confined place, however, 
for so many horses to stand, much less manoeuvre. In- 
deed, the latter was impossible, as a single false step 
of one of the upper horses on the dry, slippery grass 
might have sent himself and half the others with him 
rolling down the steep bluff 

They were arranged, therefore, in as compact order 
as possible, on the small plateau on the south side of 
the ridge, and made to lie down, while all hands went 
to work to pry up such of the smaller boulders as ap- 
peared at all manageable, and roll them to a point in- 
dicated by Clayton, at about one hundred and fifty 
feet back from the brow of the rock. He had selected 
this because he had observed that several large trees 
stood in a line across it, close enough together to 
afford a reasonable hope of being able to fill up the 
spaces between them with stones and logs for a suffi- 
cient distance to block up the only avenue of approach. 

( 116 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


117 


They had no axes, of course, but several of the men 
were armed with hatchets and tomahawks; and they 
set to work to cut down such saplings as were not too 
large, and laid them along the barricade, interlacing 
them between the trees ; they contrived, finally, to 
erect a breastwork, which, flimsy as it would have 
been on open ground or against artillery, looked as 
though it would answer its present purpose very well. 

The enemy had stationed themselves on the ridge 
and along the northern bluff, satisfied that no attempt 
at escape would be made in any other direction, and 
intending to wait until night before they ventured an 
attack. They had heard the signal whistles, and the 
answer from the rock, and knew that help was at 
hand for the besieged, but had no idea to what extent; 
they were not aware, of course, of the detachment 
having been sent off with Jenny and her parents, and 
supposed that they had the whole force in their 
clutches ; they were greatly puzzled, therefore, by the 
signals, coming from so many different directions, and 
the evident understanding between those who made 
them and the besieged party. 

On the other hand, Clayton, satisfied that his mes- 
sage had been received, and that Bettle, with his force, 
was in the neighborhood, gave himself no further 
trouble, but quietly waited, keeping a vigilant watch, 
however, through the rest of the day, prepared to 
second any plan that Bettle and Frank might adopt. 

Night came on without any more signals having 
been given; but still the handful of men waited pa- 
tiently around a fire they had built near the breast- 
work, so as to throw a strong glare of light among 
the trees on the ridge beyond. 


118 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


About an hour after sunset, Barton’s ear caught a 
low whistle proceeding from somewhere about the front 
of the rock. He answered it softly, and it was repeated 
in the same tone, followed instantly by the sharp chirp 
of a katydid. • 

“That must be Frank,” said Barton, rising to go 
toward the sound. A hand was laid upon his arm. 

“ Better let me go,” said Mahlon Sanford, in a whis- 
per. “ Does thee see the sky ?” pointing overhead to the 
dense black clouds with which it was covered. “ Once 
out o’ the firelight, an’ thee couldn’t see a step before 
the6 ; thee’d roll over the edge before thee thought o’ 
bein’ near it.” 

“ But why should you go into danger to save me ?” 
said Barton. 

“’Cause the troop ’ud git no good by thy goin’, and 
’ud git some loss if thee tumbled over the rocks in the 
dark, as thee’d be most sure to do, not knowin’ the 
ground ; I know every step of it, an’ so does Frank, 
if it’s him. Besides, if anybody’s to be lost, I can be 
best spared; boys ain’t much ’count, anyhow.” 

ThS boy gave this concluding estimate of the value of 
his branch of the species, not in a whining or sentimental 
or didactic or misanthropic manner, but in the simplest 
and most natural way possible, as if it were merely an 
abstract proposition that had no particular interest for 
anybody. 

Barton was touched by it; but he saw its force, and 
allowed the boy to pass him, while he followed as w r ell 
as he could in the darkness, which, among the trees in 
the shadows of the rocks, and under the cloud- covered 
sky, was int^se. 

Keeping well to the right, Mahlon felt his way among 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


119 


the stones to where the ground became much broken, 
but with a general, rapid slope toward the edge. Here 
he stopped, and waited till Barton, who was a few feet 
behind, came up. 

“He’s right under that big piece,” said the boy, 
pointing to a large oval mass of stone which stands 
balanced, as it were, on the very edge of the precipice, 
but which then looked only like a spot of somewhat 
more intense black in the surrounding darkness. “ I 
know he’s right there ; but it’s so dark there’s no telling 
who’s who, an’ if we come too near him without lettin’ 
him know who we are, he might shoot, thinkin’ we was 
Tories. Thee knows the signals, I don’t; s’pose thee 
tries ’em.” 

“ I will,” said Barton ; “ I’m not afraid of his shoot- 
ing at us, if it is Frank; but it may be one of the 
wolves that are lying in wait for us out yonder.” 

“ What will thee do, if it is ?” inquired the boy, in 
the same noiseless whisper in which the whole conver- 
sation had been carried on. 

“Over!” was the laconic answer, followed by a 
whistle, clear and distinct, but which would have been 
inaudible a hundred feet off w An answer came in- 
stantly from the very spot Mahlon had indicated. 

“ So far, good,” muttered Barton to himself; “let’s 
see if he’ll answer the katydid.” 

The note was sounded, and was immediately an- 
swered by another from the same spot, followed by the 
shrill twitter of a tree-frog. 

“ Frank,” said Barton, in a low tone, “ is that you? 
It’s all right; come out.” 

“Keep where you are; I’m cornin’,” said a voice; 
and then Barton heard footsteps making their way 


120 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


slowly and carefully along the dangerous route, and in 
half a minute more Frank was by his side. 

“ By the hokey !” said the latter, “but that was a 
climb ! It’s bad enough in daylight ; but such a night 
as this ! — Look’e here ! all safe ?” 

“Yes ; not a man lost.” 

“ Anybody hurt ?” 

“ Captain’s ear grazed ; that’s all.” 

“ Hosses up ?” 

“ Yes, just above. Where are the boys ?” 

“ Off in the woods yonder, jest across the meadow, 
an’ long Johnny Mac Allan, with his ten double-fisted 
sons, with their rifles.” 

“ Johnny an’ his boys !” said Mahlon, joyfully; “are 
they here ? Gosh 1 but we’ll have somethin’ like fightin’, 
now!” 

The two men and the boy had been making their 
way back to the fire during this conversation. 

“Why, Frank!” said Clayton, as they approached, 
“ how did thee contrive to get up here ?” 

“Scrambled, somehow,” said Frank; “there’s a sort 
o’ path up around the big rock that sticks out over the 
water, but it wouldn’t dp for anybody to try it at night 
unless he knew the ground. But look’e here ! that 
ain’t what I come for.” He then told Clayton pretty 
much the same in substance as he had already told 
Barton, adding, “ Some of us went to Sanford’s house, 
an’ found everything just as we left it; so we carried 
off the muskets an’ cartridge-boxes the rascals had left 
there, over to Wood’r’t’s Mill; took all the provisions 
too ; Jim an’ Harry’s been at the mill all day, runnin’ 
bullets an’ makin’ cartridges for the carbines an’ pistols. 
Mary an’ the old woman’s been busy bakin’ an’ 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


121 


cookin’, an’ at midnight the scow ’ll be down here 
under the big stone with a load o’ provisions an’ am- 
munition, an’ feed for the hosses, enough to last a 
week.” 

“Then we are safe enough,” said Clayton; “they 
can’t drive us from here, if we have food and ammu- 
nition; and I think it likely, with our force in front, 
and Bettle with his men to worry them in flank and 
rear, we may contrive to hold them a little uneasy. I 
see thee has thy cord with thee.” 

“Certain!” said Frank; “don’t ketch me travelin’ 
without it, nohow.” 

“ Does thee think,” said Clayton, dropping his voice 
so as to be barely audible to Frank, who was sitting 
close beside him, “does thee think — don’t look around 
yet — thee could find the body that belongs to that 
head — don’t move thine, look out of the corner of thy 
eye — that is peering above the bank close to that big 
hickory? The third one from the end of the breast- 
work.” 

“Wait,” said Frank, in the same tone; “may-be 
he’s heard too much.” And, changing his position 
slightly, as if to rest himself, he managed to sink lazily 
into a recumbent position, with his elbow on the 
ground and his head resting on his hand, with his face 
turned sufficiently toward the point indicated to allow 
him to see without the appearance of scrutinizing it 
particularly. Sure enough, there, right at the base of 
the tree, and partly hidden by it, was a clump of green 
leaves, which Frank was certain had not been there 
when he first came up. A close scrutiny through his 
half-closed lids showed him a pair of eyes gleaming 
from under the leaves, in the light of the fire. 

11 


122 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

Satisfied as to this, Frank then said, in a louder 
voice , — 

“ I’m goin’ to lay down where the fire won’t shine 
in my face, an’ try to get a nap.” 

So saying, he sauntered off a few feet toward the 
farther side of the ridge, and lay down behind one of 
the large fragments of rock near its edge, so as to 
bring it between himself and the spy, who still main- 
tained his position. The moment he was out of sight, 
however, he worked his way along close to the ground 
to the outside of the breastwork, crept along in front 
of it, and around through the trees so stealthily, that 
he- approached within seven or eight feet of the owner 
of the head, without being perceived. The latter was 
lying flat on his face, still absorbed in watching those 
around the fire. 

Stepping lightly from behind the tree which he had 
last reached, Frank, with about a foot of the cord 
stretched tightly between his hands, the ends coiled 
around his wrists and fore-arms, steadied himself, 
braced his feet firmly, and then, with a spring as fierce 
and as noiseless as that of a panther, leaped right on 
his victim, alighting on all fours with a knee on each 
side of the unlucky Tory’s loins, and the tight cord 
across the nape of his neck, pinning him down firmly, 
with his nose flattened against the root over which he 
had been peeping. 

There was not much chance for outcry at best ; but 
Frank put an end to all attempt at it by stooping over 
his man, still holding the cord firmly down, and hiss- 
ing in his ear, — 

“ Look’e here I if you make a whisper, if you breathe 
a loud breath, I’ll hang you without a gallows I Raise 


FRANK “ CAPTIVATING” BLACK RAWDON. 
















THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


123 


your head a little. What, you won’t ! By the hokey ! 
if you make me tell you again, I’ll shave it off and 
pitch it down the bank for your men to play foot-ball 
with. Think I don’t know you, Black Rawdon ?” 

The start the prisoner gave at this question brought 
the back of his neck into sharp contact with the point 
of the knife Frank had drawn, and showed him that 
his captor was in stern and unmistakable earnest. 

Rawdon — for it was the dreaded leader himself — 
raised his head from the root, and in an instant Frank 
had encircled his neck with two or three folds of the 
cord, just tight enough to keep him reminded of the 
danger of loud talking, and then, bidding him get up, 
secured his arms with the remainder of the cord as he 
did so, and led him, grinding his teeth in impotent 
rage, to where Clayton sat by the fire in that ever- 
lasting Quaker calmness of his. 

“ I’ve got him, captain,” said Frank. “ Do you know 
who he is ?” 

“No; does thee?” 

“I reckon,” said Frank, laconically; “Black Raw- 
don.” 

“ Black Rawdon !” exclaimed those who were near- 
est, pressing around the two men in great curiosity ; 
for the prisoner’s name was known and dreaded 
throughout the whole country-side. “ Frank’s caught 
Black Rawdon,” was buzzed through the whole party, 
and a half-circle of eager faces was formed around the 
prisoner and Clayton, who were regarding each other 
in silence. At last Clayton spoke : — 

“ Thy fate has overtaken thee at last, friend Raw- 
don. I have been on the lookout for thee for some 


124 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


time, and thee has put thy neck in my hands with a 
halter already twisted around it.” 

“ How have I put my neck in your hands ?” growled 
Rawdon. 

“By playing the spy,” was the answer, in the same 
grave, impassive tone which always marked Clayton’s 
conversation; “by playing the spy; thee has been 
taken in the act; and should I have thee thrown head- 
long from this rock, thee may be very confident that no 
account will be required at my hands of the manner of 
thy death.” 

Rawdon looked at him with an ugly scowl on his 
swarthy face, mingled with a puzzled expression of 
countenance at the plain Quaker language in which he 
was addressed, and growled, again, — 

“Who the devil are you, that talk of taking a British 
officer’s life ?” 

“At present,” said Clayton, quietly, “I am thy 
master ; and it will depend a good deal upon thy own 
behavior whether thee finds me a hard one or not. 
Will thee promise me to sit still and give no trouble if 
I have thee loosed ?” 

Rawdon nodded. 

“ Loose him, Frank,” said Clayton, and then added, 
in a lower voice, “As thee has been thrown into my 
hands a prisoner, let me advise thee to keep as near to 
me or Frank — the man that took thee — or Lieutenant 
Barton, here, as possible. There are men in the troop 
who have sworn to skin thee alive if thee should ever 
fall into their hands. Thee will see the prudence, 
therefore, of always keeping us in sight.” 

R,awdon, who had been glancing uneasily around 
during these remarks, and had seen more than one 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


125 


pair of eyes watching him with savage eagerness, 
again nodded sullenly. 

Clayton had seen it too, and added, “Thee sees: 
any attempt at escape, by force or stratagem, and I 
turn thee over to those who will show thee as much 
mercy as hungry wolves.” 

Rawdon seated himself on the ground near Clayton, 
with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin 
buried between his clinched hands, the personification 
of despair. And well he might; for, at the hands of 
at least five of those on the rock, he had earned his 
death three or four times over. I have neither time 
nor space nor inclination for any detailed account of 
this man. Suffice it to say, two of the five I have 
mentioned were in his debt, one for a father, and the 
other for a brother, murdered on their own door-steps, 
and of the other three, two for sisters carried off by 
him, and the other for a bride torn away on her wed- 
ding-night, and — well, there is no use in details ;, r there 
is but one fate for women in the hands of such men as 
Black Rawdon and his gang. 

Matters remained thus till midnight, when a slight 
tapping as of a hammer on stone was heard from the 
water’s edge. 

“ There they are,” said Frank ; and, taking two of the 
men with him, they proceeded to the edge of the rock. 
A tap from the haft of Frank’s knife was answered 
from below, and he immediately proceeded to make a 
line by splicing the cords carried by himself and his 
companions: this done, he crept forward cautiously 
until his head was over the edge of the precipice, when 
he lowered the line. It was caught from below, and 
in a moment more was shaken as a signal to raise it. 

11 * 


120 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


The next half-hour was spent in bringing up baskets 
containing quantities of bread and other provisions, 
cartridges, a huge demijohn of whisky, with bundles 
of hay and sacks of oats for the horses, and then the 
scow was silently poled across the stream, made fast 
to the large tree which stood close to the bank, and its 
occupants returned home. 

The garrison, if it may be called so, was now pro- 
visioned for a week at least. 

“ Where are thy men ?” said Clayton, turning sud- 
denly to his prisoner. 

The latter remained in sullen silence. 

“Where are thy men?” asked Clayton, again, after 
giving him ample time to answer. 

Still silent. 

“ Frank,” said Clayton, “ call up four or five of the 
men, and hang him up to that limb above the breast- 
work.” 

“All right, captain,” said Frank; “I know five of 
’em ’ud want no better fun.” 

Rawdon looked rather aghast at this exceedingly 
prompt way of doing things, and by the time Frank 
was on his way back with the men, had come to the 
sensible conclusion that he would not sacrifice his life 
for the sake of men who would be far enough from doing 
anything of the kind for him. 

“ They are out yonder, among the trees, not fifty 
yards from your breastwork.” 

“When will they attack?” 

“At three o’clock.” 

“ Without thee to head them ?” 

“They have orders to wait for me till then; if I 
don’t come, then to attack without me, under my first 
lieutenant.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


m 


“ How many are there ?” 

Rawdon hesitated. 

Clayton repeated his question, calmly, with a glance 
first at the men who were standing around him in grim 
silence, and then at the tree. 

Rawdon then stated his force to be about two hun- 
dred ; but admitted, in answer to Clayton’s question- 
ing, that there were less than a hundred who could be 
relied upon after the first or second volley. He was 
evidently pretty well satisfied that if the enemy didn’t 
run by that time, they would. 

This information was given sullenly and reluc- 
tantly enough, and not without more than one allusion 
to the alternative suggested at the beginning of the 
conference. 

“ Three o’clock,” said Clayton ; “it’s now one : we’ll 
anticipate them. Levi,” he added, addressing Barton, 
“put him under strict guard in the rear.” 

This being done, Barton was at his commander’s 
side again, awaiting orders. 

The latter, who had been in the mean time consult- 
ing with Frank, told him to give the signal to Bettle’s 
party. 

At once, the tu-hu hu-u-u-u of a screech-owl quavered 
dolorously from the rock, and was answered imme- 
diately from the woods to the eastward. 

An anxious ten minutes of suspense followed; then 
the same boding cry arose directly on the line of the 
ridge, and nearer than before. 

The party on the rock were by this time all at the 
breastwork, with carbines, knives, and pistols ready. 

Frank gave another signal, which was answered 
from the same direction as the last, but nearer still. 


128 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


At the same moment his ear, which had been all alive, 
caught the click of a gunlock just over the bank to the 
left. He nodded to Clayton, who ordered the prisoner 
again to be brought before him. 

“ Thee will give the signal for thy men to attack ; 
and thee will please to understand that if thee gives a 
false one, or if thee has told me one atom of anything 
but truth ” and he pointed to the tree. 

“ Oh, yes, I’ll give the signal,” said Rawdon, who 
had been looking stealthily around him while Clayton 
was speaking ; he snatched a pistol from the belt of 
one of the men near him as he spoke, cocked and fired 
it in an instant, almost in Clayton’s face, and then, 
hurling it at him, went, with a furious bound and 
scramble, right over the breastwork ! 

The ball, fired hurriedly, missed Clayton; but his 
face was burnt and blackened by the powder, and he 
was staggered for a moment. As Rawdon disap- 
peared in front of the breastwork, a shower of balls 
whistled over his head, all fired, in the surprise, one 
instant too late. 

“After him!” shouted Clayton, as he recovered from 
the shock, springing forward in time to see Rawdon, 
about thirty yards off, running down the slope of the 
ridge, like a deer. 

There was a momentary glimpse of this figure bound- 
ing along — of a cloud of dusky forms springing into the 
light to meet him — then the whip-like crack of a single 
rifle from the left, behind the bank, followed by the 
reports of seven or eight others in rapid succession ; a 
convulsive spring upward of the solitary figure, which 
then fell forward upon its face — and a number of figures 
armed with clubbed rifles leaping up the bank and hurl- 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


129 


ing themselves with wild whoops pell-mell among those 
who had advanced to meet Rawdon. There was no 
restraining his own men now, even had Clayton wished 
to : they poured tumultuously over the barricade, and 
in a moment were all engaged in the hurly-burly of a 
hand-to-hand fight, where no man could see his adver- 
sary ten feet off. 

The Tories, dispirited by the loss of their leader, and 
taken by surprise by the sudden rush of the Mac Allans 
(for the rifle-shots had come from long Johnny’s tribe), 
were falling back to cover, followed hotly by the latter 
and by Clayton’s men, who were by this time pressing 
them hard, in spite of their superior numbers. At this 
moment shots were heard in the rear, and then Bettle’s 
voice, in stern, rapid orders, as the slender force under 
his command pressed forward silently up the ridge. 

This new attack upon the rear of the Tories, which 
was backing down the slope in tolerably good order 
under the irresistible pressure of the front ranks, which 
had given way under the sudden furious rush of the 
whole body of the Rangers upon them, checked it, and 
drove it forward again upon the front. 

Bettle pursued his advantage, throwing himself with 
his handful of men, like wild-cats, upon the confused 
crowd which was now jammed together upon the nar- 
row strip of fighting ground which the rock afforded; 
Clayton, from above, did the same thing; while the 
Mac Allans, on the flank, slashed away promiscuously 
with their tomahawks and clubbed rifles. 

The Tories, however, though hemmed in on all sides, 
lecovering a little from their surprise, now b'egan to 
make their numbers tell. Forming three fronts, so as 
to face all their assailants at once, they were now stub- 


130 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


bornly holding their ground and keeping them at bay 
Fortunately for the reinforcement, the darkness pre- 
vented the Tories from seeing how scanty it was, while 
the fury of its attack gave them the impression of a 
much larger number than it consisted of. 

Matters were now becoming serious for the Rangers, 
when Frank, after a hasty whisper to Clayton, who 
nodded assent, disappeared, in company with Parker, 
in the direction of the horses. A moment afterward 
there was a stir among the latter as they scrambled up 
to the top of the ridge; then a voice shouting, — 

“Stand clear, there 1 Away, now 1” 

The Rangers knew what was coming, and separated 
instantly ; while down the slope, in solid column, swept 
the riderless horses, like an avalanche, headlong upon 
the surging mass of the enemy, kicking, striking, and 
biting at everything in their way, and scattering the 
compact mass of men as if a mine had exploded be- 
neath them ; while, as soon as the storm of thundering 
hoofs. had passed between them, the two divisions of 
the Rangers closed upon their track, and threw them- 
selves upon the disordered crowd more furiously than 
ever. 

Flesh and blood could not stand this ; all command 
was lost, all discipline at an end, and the panic-stricken 
Tories, hemmed in in front and rear, and utterly bewil- 
dered by this incomprehensible attack of wild beasts, 
turned sharp off to the left and dashed headlong down 
the south slope ; with what result in the dark, I leave 
any one to judge who has tried to work his way down 
it by daylight, with his head cool and plenty of time to 
look where he was stepping. 

A loud whistle from Clayton recalled his men from 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


131 


the pursuit they were recklessly making at the immi- 
nent risk of their necks. 

Some of Bettle’s men had caught the foremost of the 
horses as they reached them ; the rest had stopped at 
the word of command, and were now quietlyreturning. 
This “fighting on their own hook’’ was one of the out- 
of-the-way things in Clayton’s system of tactics, which 
had now stood him in good stead. 

As they moved back toward the breastwork, Clayton 
stumbled, in the darkness, over something soft that lay 
on the ground. A brand was brought from the fire 
that was still burning, and by its flickering light they 
turned over the body of a man who was lying face 
downwards, and saw the coarse black hair and swarthy 
features of Rawdon, who lay there with his black eyes 
wide open, glaring upward at the cloudy sky. 

“ He was a bold, bad man,” said Clayton, turning 
away, “and has gone to his account with a heavy load 
of sins to answer for.” 

“ He was near going in good company,” said Bar- 
ton, to whom he spoke, dryly: “it isn’t. often a man 
gets the smoke of a pistol in his face, without getting 
its ball too.” 


CHAPTER X. 


Pm tired of all this fighting. Here for six succes- 
sive chapters we have never had our nostrils free 
from the smell of gunpowder. But what could I do ? 
I have undertaken to chronicle the doings of as uneasy 
and reckless a set of men as evgr turned a quiet neigh- 
borhood upside down ; and I must tell what they did, 
when I had a great deal rather tell what they ought to 
have done. 

When morning came, Clayton, having previously 
made up his mind what to do, called a council of his 
officers. 

This was a “ way he had it saved a vast deal of 
trouble in balancing between conflicting opinions and 
weighing diverse propositions. His practice was to 
hear all that was to be said upon the subject, and then 
to announce his decision. 

In the present instance, the majority were decidedly 
in favor of retreating immediately toward Philadelphia, 
before the Tories could assemble in force again. 

Bettle, anxious about the safety of Jenny Sanford 
and her parents, urged this course strongly. 

Barton, however, argued that, being deprived of 
their leader, it was not likely that they would come to 
a head again in the neighborhood? particularly as they 
were necessarily ignorant of the strength, or rather the 
weakness, of the reinforcements which had come up so 
( 132 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


133 


opportunely, and, it was most probable, had greatly 
overrated them : his plan, therefore, was to remain in 
the strong position they held for a few days, until the 
men and horses were rested and refreshed. 

This happened to be precisely the conclusion to 
which Clayton had arrived ; and he therefore broke up 
the council by announcing this determination. 

This settled, his first movement was to order a de- 
tachment to Thomas Sanford’s house, to see if the 
spare horses had been driven off ; for, it will be recol- 
lected, they had been compelled to leave them in the 
hurry of the retreat on the previous morning. 

They found everything as they had left it, even to 
the horses of the Tories ‘they had routed on the even- 
ing of the 11th. Leaving these, and taking their own 
horses, they returned to the Rock, where, after feeding 
them, they addressed themselves to making a breakfast 
of the provisions which had been sent from the mill. 

When the meal was finished, all hands were set to 
work throwing up a breastwork of earth and stones, 
about fifty yards farther back, across the ridge, in 
order to allow more room. A number of saplings 
were also cut down with axes which had been brought 
from the house, cut into lengths, sharpened, and planted 
firmly along the top of the breastwork, forming a very 
complete chevaux-de-frise. 

The post thus fortified, the men spent the balance of 
the day in absolute rest, no work of any kind being 
done but the necessary grooming of the horses, pre- 
paring the meals, and standing guard ; the last Clay- 
ton never omitted, anywhere or under any circum- 
stances, by day or by night. 

With these exceptions, however, the men did as 
12 


134 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


best pleased them ; and that which best pleased the 
most of them was to go to sleep in the shadows of 
the rocks and trees, regardless of considerable firing, 
which appeared to come from the direction of the 
“Turk.” 

So the day passed. The demijohn was emptied, 
and a fearful inroad was made upon the provisions; 
for, having nothing else to do, the men were nibbling 
nearly all the time they were awake. 

Toward evening, or rather as it began to grow dark, 
old Mac Allan came to take his leave, saying he “reck- 
oned he must sort o’ think o’ travelin’ home and seein’ 
how the women-folks was a-gettin’ on, an’ what all 
that firin’ had been about.” 

“ But,” said Clayton, “ thee don’t mean to go to- 
night, does thee ? Better wait till morning. There 
may be some of the Tories prowling about in the 
neighborhood yet.” 

“ Well, s’posin’ there is,” said the old man ; “ I reckon 
I can see ’em as fur as they can see me, any how.” 

“Perhaps so,” said Clayton; “but that won’t do 
much good if a dozen or twenty of them should see 
thee at once.” 

“ Sakes alive, capt’n,” said the old man, “I’d be a 
mighty poor shoat if I couldn’t dodge a dozen Tories 
in the dark. No fear o’ me, at all.” 

“I suppose, however,” continued Clayton, “that 
thy sons will return with thee, and will make a guard 
strong enough to protect thee against any party thee’s 
likely to meet.” 

“ I s’pose they won’t do any such thing, if you’ll let 
’em stay,” said Mac Allan, very promptly ; “I’ve jest 
been talkin’ to ’em, an’ they’re all high up for a turn 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS . 135 

with the troop. I reckon the old woman an’ me, with 
the gals, can take keer o’ the cabin.” 

“ I shall certainly be very glad to have ten such men 
in the troop as thy sons,” said Clayton; “but, in the 
present state of affairs, I think it would hardly be 
right to leave thee with so little defense.” 

“ Hut tut! don’t trouble yourself about that, capt’n,” 
said the old man : “ if we’re once inside, with the door 
barred, there’s nothin’ ’ll git through short of a can- 
non-ball. No, no! the boys is wanted more where 
they are than at home ; so good-night.” 

And, without waiting for an answer, he strode down 
the ridge, with his rifle on his shoulder, and in a few 
moments was lost to sight in the woods. 

The men had built two or three fires, which, with 
their fitful glare upon the trees and rocks around, gave 
a wild, weird look to the scene, that would have de- 
lighted old Salvator Rosa, could he have seen it. 
They were gathered around them in groups; and 
Clayton, rising from his seat, made his way to that 
which contained the ten sons of long Johnny Mac 
Allan. 

Sitting down upon the grass among them, he said 
to the nearest, — 

“ Thy father tells me you all wish to remain with 
the troop. You can all ride, of course?” 

“Oh, yes,” said the other: “we can all ride well 
enough a-straddle on a horse’s back; but we can’t 
ride on his flank, and under his belly, and out on his 
tail, or between his ears, like these chaps here. We 
hain’t never larnt to do them things. I reckon we 
can do the best kind o’ fightin’ afoot. But if you want 
fellows that can put a man’s eye out as fur as they 


136 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


can see it, or hit a squir’l on the jump with a single 
ball, we’re the ones to do it.” 

“You know the country well ?” 

“ Every tree an’ fence an’ path, every hill an’ hollow 
an’ spring an’ run, for five miles round.” 

“That will do; I want just such men as you, for 
outlyers. You can follow a trail ?” 

“ Like fox-hounds; anything like Injin-fightin’ we’re 
up to.” 

“ Very good. Now, as you are the freshest of the 
party, I want you to scatter to-night and try to strike 
the trail of the Tories we fought last night ; bring me 
word of where they are and what they are doing; also, 
take your father’s house in your round, and see how 
they are getting along there. This is Seventh day; 
at this time on Third day evening I shall expect to 
see you back ; earlier, if you have anything important 
to tell.” 

“ Come, boys,” said the one to whom Clayton had 
been talking, addressing his brothers, “come along; 
we’re got some trail-work to do.” 

The other nine young giants — the youngest was a 
lad of not more than perhaps sixteen, but nearly as 
big as his brothers — arose from their seats around the 
fire, and, giving themselves a hearty shake, “ to settle 
their supper,” as one of them remarked in an explana- 
tory way, and filing out one by one through a narrow 
opening which had been left on one side of the breast- 
work, descended the slope in the direction their father 
had taken, and disappeared in the darkness. 

Those on the rock, in the mean time, were occupying 
themselves according to their respective humors and 
tastes. Some were cleaning their arms, some lying 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 13t 

on the ground asleep, some sitting around a boulder, 
watching two of their number who were engaged in a 
quiet game of cards by the light of the fire ; for though 
Clayton and his officers, with their Quaker principles, 
which, with the exception of fighting, they firmly ad- 
hered to, disapproved of such amusements, they had 
too much sense to attempt enforcing them on their wild 
followers, beyond a strict and stern prohibition of gam- 
bling. Any attempt at this was punished summarily 
and pitilessly; so much so, that he had never had oc- 
casion to administer it but once. 

The game to-night had been going on for an hour 
or so, when one of the players threw down his cards 
with a look of disgust, exclaiming, — 

“There! I’m tired of this; you’ve got -all the luck 
to-night, Harry, and I won’t play any more. S’pose 
you sing us that song you made up t’other day, when 
we were down at Turkey Point.” 

“How will the captain take it?” inquired Harry, a 
young fellow of about -twenty-two or three, appa- 
rently; rather more refined in his appearance than 
most of those around him, and the same who had ac- 
companied young Woodward to give the signal of 
the approach of Bettle; “how will the captain take 
it? May-be he won’t fancy such vanities.” 

“Oh, bother!” said the other; “if he’s not too 
much of a Quaker to split a red-coat’s head open, as I 
saw him do with a dragoon at Brandywine, I reckon 
he ain’t too much of one to stand a good song.” 

“The song, Harry! the song!” echoed those around 
who had been watching the game; “let’s have the 
song.” 

“Here goes, then,” said Harry; “only you mustn’t 
12 * 


138 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


laugh at it, if it don’t turn out as good as Jem seems 
to think it.” 

So saying, he broke forth, in a clear, ringing tenor 
voice : — 


“ Hark ! from a roused nation breaking, 
Like the roar of a hurricane awaking, 
The cry all the broad land shaking, 
Columbia shall be free ! 

Up ! you that lie there dreaming, 

The first rays of morn are streaming, 
Back from our foes’ arms gleaming, 

The foes of Liberty ! 

Arouse ! 

For the cry all the land is shaking, 
Columbia shall be free ! 

“March on them, shoulder to shoulder; 
The Britons in slavery would hold her. 
But never chain shall enfold her, 

Her sons shall make her free ! 

No Lion-flag long shall hover 
The beautiful green land over, 

But toil-harden’d freemen, who love her, 
Her masters soon shall be. 

Arouse! 

For the cry all the land is shaking, 
Columbia shall be free ! 

“Loudly the bugles are pealing, 

And morn’s faint light, o’er us stealing, 
The stars on our flag is revealing, 

The stars of Liberty ! 

Strike while that flag floats o’er us, 
Strike till the foe flies before us, 

Shout till the sky rings in chorus, 

Our country shall be free ! 

Hurrah ! 

Shout till the sky rings in chorus, 

Our country shall be free !” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


139 


The song was sung to a wild, stirring air, to which, 
perhaps, more than to any merit in the words them- 
selves, was owing the enthusiastic applause with 
which it was greeted. 

“ Dandy Harry sings like a lark ; don’t he, Frank?” 
said one of those who were seated by another fire a 
few feet off. 

“H-m-m-p!” grunted Frank; “never heard a lark 
sing such booktionary words as them. Look’e here ! 
what’s ,the use o’ squawkin’ up here like a crow 
on top of a hick’ry-tree, to tell everybody where we 
are?” 

“ Oh, you be durned, you cussed old growler ! 
what hurt could his singin’ do, that our fires hain’t 
done long ago? I don’t b’lieve you keer about bearin’ 
any music but an owl’s or an Injin whoop. Harry’s 
got a voice like a meadow-lark, or a nightingale.” 

“Well, may-be he has,” said Frank, stretching his 
arms above his head and yawning fearfully, “may-be 
he has; I never heered a night-what-y e-call- ’em; I’ve 
heered a night -hawk many a time, an’ it ain’t like 
that. ” 

To tell the truth, Frank was woefully deficient in 
what is called musical “ear,” and had in a high de- 
gree of perfection that so-called “practical” turn of 
mind that could see little use or beauty in anything 
that couldn’t be made to pay in some fashion or 
other. 

Harry Darlington, who had got his nickname of 
“Dandy” from a little -more fastidiousness about his 
dress and equipments than was altogether fashionable 
in the troop, and from a certain indefinable pictur- 
esqueness in his dress and manner which were natural 


140 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


to him, and betrayed a poetic and artistic character of 
mind, which would have been of more use to him in 
some other situation than the present, was, neverthe- 
less, entirely wanting in the most distinguishing char- 
acteristics of the animal whose name he Jbore : he had 
not a particle of its affectation, he had none of its 
dawdling indolence and indifference, but was as quick 
as a steel-trap, always ready for action, and was one 
of the bravest, and, where recklessness was of any 
use, one of the most reckless, fighters in the troop. 
In person, though tall, he was slender almost to deli- 
cacy, with small hands and feet ; his hair was light 
and wavy, and his skin, in spite of the exposed life he 
was leading, was almost as fair, and his blue eyes, 
when in repose, as mild, as a girl’s. He was the only 
one of the whole troop whose appearance could be 
called effeminate; and yet he was one that none who 
knew him cared to anger; for within that slender frame 
were muscles like catgut, and beneath that mild, gentle 
exterior were hidden the fire and resistless energy of 
a steam-engine. 

He was good-humored, however, and merely laughed 
at Frank’s grumbling depreciation of his musical 
powers, which he had overheard. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I’m about sleepy enough to turn 
in. Pull the curtains, will you, Jemmy, and tuck in 
the sheets,” he added, as he threw himself down upon 
the dew-laden grass, with his blanket rolled up for a 
pillow. “ Oh, dear ! I wonder what my fidgety old 
aunty would say if she could see me ? The last thing 
she said to me was, ‘ Now, Harry, whatever thee does, 
be sure and always have plenty of bedclothes, and, 
mind, don’t let the night-air blow on thee.’ I’m afraid 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


141 


this mattress is a little damp. Draw the curtains, 
Jemmy, and tuck me in.” 

The rest of the men soon followed Harry’s example, 
and in a few minutes more all were asleep, in a silence 
which was broken only by the trumpeting of one or two 
inveterate snorers, the measured tramp of the sentinels, 
and the occasional restless movements of some of the 
horses. 

Just before dawn, Bettle was startled from his sleep 
by a voice crying, “William! William! save me.” The 
voice was Jenny Sanford’s! He heard it and recog- 
nized it as plainly and distinctly as he had ever heard 
it when talking to her face to face, though now it was 
full of the sharpness of agonized fear. 

Springing to his feet with a bound, he listened with 
painful intensity for a repetition of the cry. But he 
heard it no more ; and all around was still, except the 
slight sounds mentioned before. Gradually, as he 
looked around him, recovering his faculties, which, ex- 
cept the single one of listening, had been for the mo- 
ment set utterly adrift and wool-gathering by his 
startling awakening, Bettle stood with his heart beat- 
ing violently from the sudden reaction of his excite- 
ment. 

“ I wonder if that was a dream,” he muttered to him- 
self; “it was fearfully like reality; I could have sworn 
that I heard her call me. Sam Diller,” he added, step- 
ping over to the sentry who was nearest him, “ has 
anything been stirring ?” 

“Nothin’ at all, sir; hardly a leaf turned, it’s been 
so still.” 

“ You haven’t heard anything, then?” 

“No, sir; leastways, nothin’ but Jemmy Wood’r’t 


142 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

an’ Sanford’s Mike, over there, tryin’ which can snore 
the loudest. Did you hear anything, sir ?” 

“No, I suppose not; it must have been a dream. I 
thought I heard a voice in the woods below.” 

“ Them dreams is queer things,” said the sentry, 
pacing up and down his short beat, with Bettle, who 
was too thoroughly excited to sleep again, pacing be- 
side him, “ queer things they are, an’ no mistake. I’ve 
had ’em of all kinds; knocks at my door and my name 
called, and never a mortal hand or voice to give knock 
or call; I’ve been chased by Injins, an’ could run like 
a rabbit till I come to one big buttonball-tree — always 
the same one — an’ then it appeared like I couldn’t lift 
my feet off the ground, an’ jist as they was a-goin’ to 
skelp me I’d git awake ; an’ offen an’ offen I’ve found 
myself at a huskin’ or quiltin’ frolic or an’ apple-parin’ 
bee, in a room full o’ gals, with nothin’ on but my shirt, 
savin’ your presence, an’ my breeches a mile off at hum, 
an’ sich a time as I Hark I” 

Sure enough ! High and clear, piercing the calm 
morning air, this time, with unmistakable and terrible 
distinctness, rang a woman’s voice from the woods at 
the foot of the ridge, shrieking for “ Help ! Help ! 
Help !” 

“ By the Lord Harry 1” exclaimed Diller, throwing 
down his carbine and springing like a cat to the top of 
the breastwork, “ that’s old Sanford’s daughter ! I 
know the voice.” 

Bettle was beside him in an instant, and again the 
cry came up. 

“ Stand fast here, Sam, while I rouse some of the 
men,” said Bettle, hurriedly ; and, springing down 
again, he darted to where Frank had been lying, but 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


143 


found him already on his feet, awakened by the voice. 
Frank’s faculties were always on the alert, and, no 
matter how sudden or startling might be his arousing, 
he always knew exactly where he was and what he was 
doing. He had already roused the men nearest him, 
and was just saying to Clayton, who, was also on his 
feet, “By the hokey, capt’n, that was Jenny Sanrora, 
as sure as death!” when Bettle rushed to the group, 
exclaiming, “Follow, quick! All the boys you can 
gather, Frank !” and, turning about, sprang toward the 
opening in the breastwork, with Frank and some half- 
dozen of the men close behind him, and darted at full 
run down the ridge in the direction whence the alarm 
had come. The bustle had awakened the rest of the 
men, who, comprehending that there had been an alarm 
of some kind, but ignorant of what it was, were hur- 
riedly attempting to get their horses saddled, when the 
calm voice of Clayton, whose coolness all the excite- 
ment had not disturbed, was heard. 

“Let the horses be; there’s no time to get them 
ready. John,” turning to the elder Sanford, “we 
heard thy sister’s voice in the woods, calling for help. 
Levi, take thy division; Wheeler, thine, and follow; 
the rest stand fast.” 

John Sanford ground something very much like an 
oath between his teeth, Quaker though he was, as 
Clayton spoke to him, and was out through the open- 
ing with Barton and his division before the whole 
order had passed Clayton’s lips. Harry the minstrel 
and Mahlon Sanford had gone before, without waiting 
for any orders, clearing the breastwork, stakes and all, 
side by side, at a flying leap, like two panthers. 

“ Sentries, to your posts I” exclaimed Clayton, sharnlv 


144 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


observing that they had forsaken them to crowd for- 
ward to the breastwork. “ Who ordered you to leave 
them? Diller, stay up where thee is, and keep eyes 
and ears open. Some of you go now and saddle the 
horses and have them ready.” 

These orders having been promptly obeyed, Clayton 
sat calmly down upon a stone to await the result. 


CHAPTER XI. 


When the pursuers reached the bottom of the slope, 
there was no appearance of those they were pursuing, 
and, to ordinary eyes, no trace of their passage. Here 
Frank’s early training in running by scent, as it were, 
came into play. The dawn had broken, and, as the 
gray light stole over the sky, the group stood around 
Frank, who was crouched on one knee, carefully exam- 
ining the ground in the still imperfect light. 

“I’ve got it, by the hokey!” said he, raising his 
head and looking a little in advance. “Stand away, 
you in front there, till I see how it leads out.” 

The group separated, and Frank, rising to his feet, 
ran his eye for a moment along the ground, and ex- 
claimed, — 

“Yes, there it goes, as plain as a wagon-road and 
then, taking the lead of the party, fell at once into a 
long, loping trot, dodging in and out among trees, 
around clumps of bushes, his eyes mostly fixed upon 
the ground a short distance in advance, but losing no 
unusual appearance among the bushes which grew 
thickly along the course they were pursuing, never 
halting or hesitating for a moment, except, occasion- 
ally, at a remark from some one, louder than he thought 
prudent, when he would turn half around, put his 
finger on his lip, shake his fist at the offender, and then 
resume his trot, with a speed which kept them busy to 
avoid falling behind. 


13 


(145) 


146 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“How many of them are there, Frank?” said Bettle, 
who was pressing on beside him. 

“ Ten hosses ; one of ’em’s lame.” 

“How do you know the number?” said Bettle. 

“ Tracks ; plenty o’ sign,” said Frank, laconically ; 
for he never wasted words or vouchsafed minute in- 
formation when on a trail. 

“ Any footmen ?” 

Frank shook his head impatiently, and the party 
moved on in silence for half an hour more, when he 
suddenly stooped, picked up something which lay on 
the ground, and stopped short with his finger on his 
lip. 

“ What is it?” inquired Barton, who happened now 
to be nearest him. 

Frank handed him a woman’s slipper, simply 
saying,— 

“Jenny’s. ’St; not a hundred yards off!” 

“ How do you know that ?” exclaimed Bettle, who 
had seized the slipper unceremoniously. 

“ Warm,” said Frank; “put your hand inside ; not 
been off two minutes. She’s dropped it o’ purpose.” 

Bettle thrust his hand into the slipper, and found 
that the keen guide was right, for the warmth of the 
foot from which it had dropped or been plucked still 
lingered about it. 

“Well, push on, then,” said Bettle, impatiently; 
“push on, and don’t give them time to get out of 
reach.” 

“Easy, leftenant, easy,” said Frank, quietly; “if 
you want to git the gal agin alive, they mustn’t see 
or hear us till we strike.” 

“ What do you mean ?” inquired Bettle, anxiously 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 141 

“ Why, look’e here ! if it’s any o’ Rawdon’s gang, — 
an’ I’m afeard it is, — they’re jest the fellows to cut her 
throat or shoot her, sooner ’an let us git her, or be 
bothered with her in a race, if we go at ’em bull-headed 
and let ’em see us in time.” 

Bettle bit his lip till the blood came, for he was in a 
fever of excitement; but he saw the wisdom of Frank’s 
advice, and acquiesced at once. He explained it rapidly 
to Barton, and the whole party stood silent, awaiting 
the development of Frank’s plan. 

The latter continued: — 

“ There’s a farm-house about half a mile furder on, 
an old Tory’s, where I reckon they’ll halt an’ git break- 
fast, if they don’t hear us after ’em; that ’ll be the time 
to light on ’em. I’ll go on now, an’ the rest o’ you keep 
about fifty yards behind, but don’t git out o’ sight; 
when I want you, I’ll beckon.” 

So saying, Frank resumed his march, but much 
more slowly and cautiously than before, the others fol- 
lowing at the same pace at about the distance he had 
named. 

Bettle, who had retained possession of the shoe, 
which he would have considered it sacrilege to throw 
away, was a little embarrassed to know what to do with 
it, but finally thrust it into his belt for temporary safe- 
keeping. 

As yet none of the party had caught a glimpse of 
those they were pursuing, but simply followed on in a 
blind reliance on Frank’s judgment. In the course of 
ten or fifteen minutes after their last start, however, 
they saw him stop and beckon to them. 

When they reached the spot where he was standing, 
they found themselves near the edge of the wood, with 


148 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


a meadow in front of them, beyond which, at about a 
hundred yards’ distance, stood the farm-house of which 
Frank had spoken. In the yard stood ten horses, all 
of whose riders, except three, had dismounted ; and in 
these three Bettle, Frank, and the two brothers at 
once recognized Jenny Sanford and her father and 
mother. 

Some of the men about them appeared to be urging 
them to dismount, and one raised his hand and at- 
tempted to take Jenny’s for the purpose of assisting 
her. She shook her head, and withdrew her hand out 
of his reach. 

Finally the party went into the house, leaving Jenny 
and her parents with two men to guard them, having 
first taken the precaution of hobbling their horses so 
that they could not run. 

Our party saw all these manoeuvres, and prepared 
for work. Adjoining the meadow and the woods, 
stretching past the back of the house, and then Sweep- 
ing around it on the farther side close to the fences, 
was a large cornfield. Into this Frank at once plunged, 
and led his party rapidly toward the house. 

“ If we only had a couple of Johnny Mac Allan’s 
boys with their long rifles here,” muttered Frank, 
“ we could fix this off beautiful.” 

“ How?” said Barton. 

“ Pick off the guards while we got into the house ; 
but our carbines can’t be trusted for such nice 
work.” 

“We must secure the guards first,” said Barton. 

“Or the gal’s dead, an’ most likely the old folks 
too,” said Frank: “I know the two scoundrels that’s 
standin’ guard.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


149 


On the side of the house next the woods was a kind 
of out-house, used as a shelter for the pump, and as a 
summer kitchen; next to this was the corn-crib, not 
exactly adjoining, but with a space of perhaps three 
feet between it and the out-house. 

When they reached the part of the cornfield imme- 
diately behind this, Frank ordered a halt; the com- 
mand of the expedition had been tacitly allowed to 
him, or rather he had assumed it as a matter of course, 
as being the only man there who could conduct it; and 
his orders were obeyed implicitly. 

“ Fust an’ foremost,” said he, “ them two guards is 
got to be got out o’ the way afore we can do anything 
else. Some two of us must sneak on ’em, as soon as 
the rest’s ready to surround the house.” 

“I’ll be one of the two,” said Bettle. 

“And I’ll be t’other,” said Mahlon Sanford. 

“ No, no, JVfelly,” said Frank; “ ’twon’t do for you; 
you’re as spry an’ lissom- as a young painter, but you 
hain’t got the gristle yet to handle a grown man, an’ 
I want these two settled with the knife or tom-axe. 
Leftenant,” he added, turning to Bettle, “unless 
you’re detarmined, you’d better let me take your 
place; you see, these men have got to be killed out o’ 
hand; it won’t do to try any half-an’-half doin’s ; an’ 
you wouldn’t want to cut a fellow’s throat or split his 
skull right alongside o’ her , would you?” 

“No, I would not,” said Bettle; “but why kill them 
at all?” 

“ ’Cause two of us couldn’t take ’em both at once ; 
an’, if either of ’em gits time to shoot or strike, it’ll be 
right at the gal or the old folks.” 


150 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“ Why not shoot them from the cornfield on the 
other side ?” 

“ Too much risk ; might miss ; might hit the wrong 
person; might only wound ’em, an’ that ’ud spile all. 
Better let Dandy Harry an’ me manage it,” said 
Frank, who, if he did not appreciate Harry’s music, 
did fully appreciate his uncommon strength and activ- 
ity, as well as his reckless bravery. 

Bettle reluctantly acquiesced in this plan, and the 
party proceeded to put their design into execution. 

Frank and Harry stole cautiously around through 
the corn, while the rest divided ; some guarding the 
back of the house, while the others passed quietly 
through the opening between the corn-crib and the 
out-house, and remained just out of sight around the 
corner of the latter. 

Jenny and her parents were seated on their horses, 
looking eagerly across the meadow towards the woods 
from which they had recently emerged, and the two 
guards kept their eyes in the same direction. The 
Tories were at breakfast in the best parlor, which was 
on the opposite side of the bouse, opening upon a 
space, not more than a rod in width, between it and 
the edge of the cornfield where Wheeler and his men 
were concealed. 

“ Tommy,” said one of the guards, whining his 
words with a sarcastic drawl through his nose, “ Tom- 
my, does thee expect anybody to come aout the woods 
yonder to help thee aout the hands o’ the Philistians, 
Tommy?” 

The old man made no answer, nor did Jenny, to 
whom the other was addressing some ironical pleas- 
antries of the same kind. Neither of them was aware 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


151 


of light steps stealing through the grass behind them, 
and they continued their brutal taunting; and the one 
who was speaking to Jenny, growing bolder, and irri- 
tated by her silence, bad on his lips a vile and obscene 
jest, when a blow from a tomahawk, cleaving through 
cap and skull to the eyebrow, spoiled its point by in- 
terrupting its utterance at once and forever. At the 
same instant the other received a downward stab from 
Harry’s knife, which struck him at the base of the 
neck, just within the collar-bone. Both men fell in 
their tracks as if struck by lightning. Before the 
prisoners had recovered from their astonishment, three 
rapid strokes of Frank’s knife had cut the hobbles, the 
gate was opened, and he exclaimed, “Ride, now, ride 
for your lives! Back across the meadow into the 
woods, an’ wait there.” 

Prompt, quick-witted, and possessed of the invalu- 
able faculty of obeying an order instantly and with- 
out question or explanation, Jenny gave rein to her 
horse and flew through the gate in the direction indi- 
cated. 

Martha was less wise, and began to ask what they 
were to do in the woods, when Frank unceremoniously 
cut short her queries by seizing her horse by the head, 
running him through the gate, and starting him, by a 
furious kick in the ribs, at full speed after Jenny, who 
was flying across the meadow, with her father follow- 
ing close behind. 

The Tories, as I have said, were at breakfast in the 
best room, on the opposite side of the house from where 
these things occurred. The leader, who was in fact 
Rawdon’s lieutenant, and a worthy successor of that 
estimable individual, while doing ample justice to the 


152 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


good things that were bountifully supplied, kept his 
ears wide open; for, suspecting strongly that Clay- 
ton’s force was still on the Rock, he was far from feel- 
ing a comfortable degree of assurance that Jenny’s call 
for help as they passed it would not be answered yet. 

He was oh the point of rising to order the prisoners 
to be brought into the house, where they might be 
under his own eye, when his quick ear caught the faint 
crash of Frank’s tomahawk as he struck down the 
guard. The next instant he heard his voice, and the 
quick patter of hoofs as the horses galloped from the 
yard. 

“What the d — 1!” he exclaimed, springing to his 
feet, and sending his chair spinning through the paper 
screen that closed the fireplace; “ the prisoners are off! 
Follow !” 

He darted into the next room toward the yard, but 
stopped when half-way across it, for in the door stood 
Bettle and Barton, right in his path, sword in hand, 
and each of the two windows was darkened by the 
figures of men with leveled carbines. Behind the two 
officers, in the oat-house, he saw other armed men also. 

“Drop your sword,” said Barton; “your game is 
played out ; you are prisoners. ” 

The other Tories had gathered into the room by this 
time, however, and their leader, recovering from his 
first surprise, shouted to them, “ Fire, men, fire ! and 
sweep the windows !” and, drawing a pistol from his 
belt, fired at the two who were standing in the doorway. 

Bettle had sprung in front of his companion toward 
the Tory as the latter spoke, but staggered back a step 
or two, at the report of the pistol. 

“ Are you hit, Bettle ?” said Barton, throwing his 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


153 


arm out to catch him, as the room filled with smoke 
from a dozen carbines fired through the windows. 

“Not hurt,” said Bettle, recovering his balance, and 
touching the shoe at his waist, in the heel of which the 
ball was half buried. “At them, boys 1” And, springing 
forward again, his sword crossed with that of the Tory 
leader. 

The men poured in through the door and windows, 
receiving a hurried random fire from the enemy’s pis- 
tols, and then the small room was for a few moments 
a confused hurly-burly of clinking sword- blows and 
cracking pistols, and clouds of smoke, thick with the 
oaths and curses of the Tories, tor the Rangers fought, 
as they always did, with clinched teeth and in silence. 

It was getting too hot for the Tories, and they at- 
tempted to retreat through the room they had just left, 
but found their retreat cut off by the reserve of the 
Rangers, who had forced their way into the house 
from the back, and now held them covered with their 
carbines. 

“ Don’t thee think it’s about time to stop ?” said 
Wheeler, mildly, as he seized the foremost man by the 
collar, and held the point of his sword to his throat. 
“ If thee makes any resistance, I’m afraid I shall have 
to constrain thee.” And, as he spoke, the Tory felt a 
slight pricking pressure upon his throat, just upon the 
“Adam’s apple,” that admonished him strongly of the 
folly of further resistance. 

“ I surrender, on quarters and fair treatment,” said 
he, sullenly. 

“ I reckon thee’ll just surrender ,” said Wheeler, in 
the same placid tone ; “ thee and all thy men can do 
it, alive or dead, just as you choose ; but you’ll do it .” 


154 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


All the combatants were by this time in the break- 
fast-room, and Wheeler, who still kept his hold on his 
prisoner, spying Barton, said, — 

“This friend wants to make terms, Levi; thee’s cap- 
tain here ; shall he have them ?” 

“Yes; such terms as Captain Clayton chooses to 
give. Are you the commander of this gang of banditti ?” 
said Barton, addressing the Tory. 

The fellow glared at him savagely for a moment, 
and nodded. 

“Do you surrender?” 

“Yes,” said the other, grinding his teeth : “what’s 
the use of trying to fight with only three men against 
twenty ?” 

“Not much,” said Barton: “you might have dis- 
covered that before. Order your men to lay down 
their arms.” 

This ended the fight ; the victory was won, it re- 
mained to see at what cost. 

Ah 1 that cost! that cost! It always comes in at a 
victory, like the skeleton in the old Egyptian feasts. 

There, in the front room, beneath the window 
through which he had sprung, lay Mahlon Sanford, 
dead. 

Beside him lay a gigantic trooper, with the upper 
part of his face crushed out of all semblance to human- 
ity, by a blow from a carbine-butt; and standing there, 
with one foot pressing heavily upon the broad chest, 
his arms folded, his brows drawn together, and his 
lips compressed to a ghastly whiteness with the intense 
agony of his grief, was John Sanford. His carbine, 
with its blood-splashed butt, lay where it had fallen 
across the trooper’s thighs, unnoticed. The body of 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


155 


the Tory leader (the one who had surrendered to Bar- 
ton had assumed command on the death of his superior) 
lay in the middle of the room, where Bettle had struck 
him down. The men were standing around in mute 
sympathy, for Mahlon was a favorite with them all ; 
but the brother saw nothing but the slight, boyish form 
which lay motionless before him. At last Bettle, wish- 
ing to rouse him from his stupor, touched his arm and 
spoke to him, “ John” — but his voice faltered. 

The single word broke the spell, however, and John, 
turning suddenly, seized Bettle’s hand with both his 
own, and, wringing it, exclaimed, passionately, — 

“ Oh, Bettle, Bettle ! how shall I tell this to mother? 
The youngest, her pet, her darling 1 How can I go and 
tell her he’s dead ?” And the strong man broke down 
utterly, and, burying his face in his hands, shook all 
over with the convulsive sobs that burst forth uncon- 
trollably. 

Tears were trickling down the bronzed faces of the 
wild Rangers who were gathered around, over cheeks 
which had not been wet by tears for many a day. 

At last Harry went to John, and, passing his arm 
across his shoulders, walked into the yard with him, 
saying, in a low voice, “Come, John; you’d better not 
stay here any longer. Leave Melly to us ; we’ll do all 
that remains to be done for him.” 

“He must be brought with us,” said John. 

“ Of course ; we’d better take him to the Rock for 
the present, and then we can decide what shall be 
done,” said Harry, adding, — 

“ We must get back as soon as possible, for there’s 
no telling how many of the scoundrels in the neighbor- 
hood have heard the firing, and Halt, there 1” 


156 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


The sudden exclamation was drawn from Harry by 
a glimpse of a shadow flitting across the space between 
the corn-crib and the out-house. Darting through the 
passage, he leaped into the cornfield, and disappeared 
for a moment ; there was a sound of scuffling among the 
corn, and then Harry reappeared, dragging after him 
a stout boy, who was hanging back, whimpering and 
protesting that he “ wan’t goin’ to do nothin’; he wan’t 
on’y jest goin’ to the spring-house.” 

“ That’s right in the middle of the meadow here,” 
interrupted Harry. “ Sonny, when you undertake to 
tell a lie to an old bird like me, you ought to tell a 
straighter one ; this one’s as crooked as the route you 
were taking to the spring. Now, where are the soldiers 
you were going to see ?” 

The boy remained in sullen silence. 

“ Oh, very well,” said Harry, perceiving that the 
other Rangers were all in the yard ready to move, four 
of them in the rear, bearing the body of Mahlon, which 
lay on a shutter they had lifted from the old-fashioned 
strap hinges which sustained it, a pillow under his 
head, and a clean white sheet laid carefully over him. 
“ Now, my son, you’re going with us ; you’re going to 
have the post of honor in front, between me and this 
gentleman,” pointing to Frank; “and at the first 
sound you make above a whisper, the first sign you 
make with head or foot or hand, or the first appearance 
of an attack on us, sign or no sign, you’ll die in your 
tracks, whoever else escapes.” 

The boy, though not particularly sharp-witted, was 
brilliant enough to understand these practical remarks, 
and took his place submissively between Harry and 
Frank, and they moved silently and sadly across the 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 157 

meadow toward the woods, where they joined the 
Sanfords, thence toward the Rock, without further 
alarm or disturbance, Jenny and her father riding on 
one side of the rude bier, and Martha, with her other 
son at her bridle, on the other. 

About half a mile from the Rock, the men in ad- 
vance stopped, and Frank, leaving his charge, on whose 
arm Harry instantly fastened a grip like a vice, whis- 
pered a moment to Barton, who nodded. 

“ Is the way clear from here to the Rock?” inquired 
Frank, returning to their involuntary guide. “ Listen 
afore you answer. The rest are goin’ on ; you’re goin’ 
to stay here with me an’ Harry till we’re ready to 
move. Now, if anything goes wrong, by the hokey! 
you know what you’re got to look for.” 

The boy asseverated strongly that he “ be derned 
if there was a Tory nearer ’n five miles off, as he 
know’d on.” 

Frank nodded to Barton, who moved on with his 
party, while he and Harry coolly seated themselves 
on a log, with their prisoner between them. 

In the course of fifteen or twenty minutes more a 
long, shrill whistle came from the direction of the 
Rock. 

“ There’s Sam Diller,” said Harry: “he has a pipe 
like ten thousand plovers.” 

“They’re there, all safe, then,” said Frank. “Now 
you may go home; and if you see any of the Tories, tell 
’em we’ve got fifty men on the Rock ready for ’em.” 

After the boy had gone, Harry said to Frank, — 

“ I supposed we stopped here to keep that young 
scoundrel from seeing what force we had. What the 
deuce made you tell him?” 

14 


158 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“Why, look’e here!” said Frank, “’cause he’s jest 
about sharp enough to make certain I was a-lyin’, or, 
if he ain’t, so much the better; ’cause if he tells any 
of the Tories they’ll make sure I was, an’ be afeard o’ 
gittin’ into a trap.” 

The two men now went on to the Rock, where they 
found, in addition to those who had gone on in ad- 
vance, long Johnny Mac Allan, his wife, and their 
three daughters. 

The women were sitting apart with the Sanfords, 
beside the body of Mahlon, while Mac Allan was talk- 
ing earnestly to Clayton. 

Martha Sanford gave way to no noisy demonstra- 
tions of grief, but sat motionless, her hands crossed in 
her lap, her eyes fastened on her boy. 

Her husband sat near her, his features clothed with 
that rigid, stony, almost fearful calmness which be- 
longs to feelings forcibly and sternly kept down. 

Jenny sat between, weeping silently but plentifully, 
the only one to whom the relief of tears had come. 

“ Oh, William, William,” said the mother, at last, 
as Bettle drew near with John Sanford, “didn’t thee 
promise me my boy should not go to battle? How 
could thee let him?” 

“It wasn’t William’s fault, mother,” said her son, 
gently; “if he or any of us could have stopped him, 
we would ; but he and one of the men were out ahead 
of all the rest, as soon as we heard Jenny call; and 
when we surrounded the house he got into another 
division, and William and I both lost sight of him till 
it was too late.” 

“ I don’t understand it at all, John: I only know my 
boy is dead.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


159 


At this moment, Clayton, having finished his con- 
versation with Mac Allan, approached Martha, and, 
taking her hand, said, earnestly, — 

“We all share thy grief, Martha; we all mourn for 
him, for he had endeared himself even to the wildest 
and roughest of the men ; not one of them but would 
have saved him at the cost of his own life, if it could 
have been ; but it was ordered otherwise, and we can 
only bow to the will of Him who holds all our lives in 
His hand.” 

“ I know we must, Ellis; but, oh, it’s hard, it’s hard, 
to lose him so suddenly, without any warning, and in 
such a way ! But I will not grieve wickedly for him. 
The Lord gave him, and He hath taken him in His 
own good time and in His own way. I will not ques- 
tion His providence.” 

Clayton led her gently away, followed by Jenny, 
who clung with both hands to Bettle’s arm, sobbing 
convulsively, while Mrs. Mac Allan and her daughters 
prepared the body for burial, which it was necessary 
should take place as soon as possible, it being uncer- 
tain at what moment they might be attacked or be 
obliged to forsake the Rock; though Clayton intended 
to hold it, if possible, until all his scouts had come in. 

He had explained the necessity for this apparently 
hurried burial to the family ; and they made no objec- 
tion. 

In the course of an hour, Mac Allan stepped quietly 
up to Clayton and informed him that they were ready. 

They stood around the shallow grave beside which 
the boy lay, still upon the shutter, with the sheet 
wrapped around him, the troopers with heads uncov- 
ered and arms reversed, and the stricken family look- 


160 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


ing sadly at the last they would see on earth of him 
they all loved so well. 

He was lowered on the shutter as he lay, his face 
covered with a fold of the sheet, some thick branches 
were laid carefully above him to prevent the earth 
from touching him when the grave should be filled, 
and they turned away again, in a silence broken only 
by the voice of Mike, which rose and fell in the Irish 
“ keen” for the dead, with a cadence inexpressibly wild 
and mournful. 


CHAPTER XII. 


On the previous Friday night, when the Tories had 
retreated, beaten from the Rock, they scattered at first, 
in a panic at the loss of their leader. Gradually, how- 
ever, dropping in, sometimes one at a time, sometimes 
two or three together, about a hundred of them were 
assembled in a wild, secluded spot beside the creek, 
which had been previously used as a place of rendez- 
vous after their forays. 

They brought no plunder with them this time, how- 
ever ; only chafed tempers, which found vent in a good 
deal of crimination and recrimination as to their defeat. 
This brought on a hot discussion as to the strength of 
the reinforcement which had come up so opportunely. 
Some averred that they had counted a hundred, some 
fifty, some twenty ; some said they were regulars, some 
that they were riflemen, some that they were both, 
and one fellow, besides, swore a huge oath that he had 
seen two six-pounders grinning over the breastwork. 

“Yeou be blamed,” drawled a sharp, nasal voice 
from the foot of a tree a few feet off, where its owner, 
who had until now taken no part in the conversation, 
sat leaning against the trunk, engaged in whittling a 
stick which he had cut from a bush near him for that 
especial purpose ; “there wan’t nao six-paounders, nor 
nao other kind o’ paounders, ’cept them on two legs, 
an ? the cussed, rampin’ hosses ’at paounded us daown 
the bank.” 


14 * 


( 161 ) 


162 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“ Wall, naow, I reckon not,” said the other, mimick- 
ing him : “you hadn’t much chance o’ seein’ what there 
was, the way them long legs o’ yourn carried your ugly 
mug out o’ the way when them big teeth an’ thrashin’ 
hoofs come tearin’ in among us.” 

“ Yaas,” said the other, coolly, “I beat ye, didn’t 
I ? I heern them little pins o’ yourn a’ pittipattin’ con- 
sider’ble quick arter I passed you, but they were too 
short to keep up. Naow, I’ll tell you what; there 
wan’t no regulars, but there was riflemen, an’ mighty 
good shots too; an’, what’s more, I know who they 
were.” 

“ Who were they ?” inquired the leader. 

“Long Johnny Mac Allan an’ his ten double-fisted 
sons; an’ naow I’ve got a plan: there ain’t nobody 
but the women-folks about the old fellow’s haouse; 
let’s go an’ burn it to pay him for meddlin’ with our 
business.” 

This proposition was agreed to unanimously ; and 
just before daybreak, under the guidance of the Yankee, 
they reached the place. 

The inmates of the house were aroused by the furious 
barking of the dogs in the yard, and Keziah, peeping 
out through one of the loop-holes, saw it full of the 
Tories. 

“ Up, gals, up, an’ take to the loop-holes, with the 
rifles,” said she. “ Here’s a purty kittle o’ fish ; if 
there’s one Tory, there’s a hundred in the yard. 
Hannah, you take t’other loop-hole in front, here ; 
Jemima an’ ’Rushy, you take the back ones; an’ I 
reckon we’ll give ’em some trouble yit, afore they git 
in.” 

The girls each seized a rifle, four of which, with 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS . 163 

powder-horn and bullet-pouch for each, all well filled, 
hung upon their several hooks around the lower room, 
to which all had descended. 

Briefly telling Jenny and her parents to place them- 
selves in the corner of the room, out of the line of fire 
from without, the stout-hearted woman thrust the 
muzzle of her rifle through the opening at which she 
had stationed herself, and coolly awaited the sum- 
mons. 

“ Open the door, in the King’s name,” said a voice 
from without. 

The only answer was the click of her rifle, as she 
cocked it. 

“Aha,” said the leader, whose quick ear had caught 
the sound, “that’s the answer, is it? Surround the 
house.” 

It will be remembered that there was a considerable 
body of footmen attached to the party. These imme- 
diately .divided, about half of them going around to 
the rear of the house; while those who were on 
horseback dismounted, and, leading their horses a 
little back, tied them among the trees, and then re- 
turned. 

The leader again ordered the door to be opened ; but, 
no answer being received, they proceeded to force it. 
Their plan for doing this was extremely simple : they 
procured axes from an out-house, where some had 
been carelessly left in the hurried departure of the 
men, cut down a stout sapling, and, raising it in 
their hands, prepared to make a rush with it at the 
door. 

Keziah had been watching their manoeuvres, and, 
as the men poised the sapling in their hands, ex- 


164 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

claimed to her daughter, who was guarding the front 
with her, — 

‘‘Now, Hannah, as soon’s they git in a run with 
that pole, I’ll give the word, an’ do you pick off the 
foremost on your side.” 

Hannah nodded. 

After “hefting” the sapling once or twice, the 
twenty men who held it started for the door at a run. 
If they had reached it, the door must have gone down, 
strong as it was. But in the midst of their rush 
came, almost as one, the sharp crack of two rifles, one 
from each side the door, and the two foremost men 
fell. The sudden loss of support for the forward end 
of the battering-ram, as it might be called, thus unex- 
pectedly throwing the additional weight and leverage 
upon those who were next in the rear, caused it to 
sway downwards, striking the ground, jerking it out 
of their hands by the sudden check, and bringing it 
to the earth with a crash, and the whole party 
down with it, each man tripping up the one behind 
him. 

“ Pick yourselves up and try it agin, ye villains,” 
said Keziah, priming her rifle, which she had reloaded; 
“ try it agin, if ye want to lose more o’ your men ; if 
you don’t, clear out and leave us alone 1 We’ve shed 
blood enough for one day.” 

She was answered by a volley from the muskets in 
front, the balls from which pattered into the logs 
around the loop-hole, and one, better aimed than the 
rest, passed through it, carrying away her cap and 
comb, and burying itself in the opposite-side, about a 
foot above ’Rushy’s head. Keziah only shook her 
gray locks and laughed. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 165 

Hannah’s rifle cracked again, but missed; the Tories 
being so enveloped in the smoke from the muskets 
that it was impossible to see any form distinctly. 

The fallen men, excepting the two who had been 
shot and were lying beneath the pole, had by this 
time regained their feet, and the whole party, in obe- 
dience to their leader’s command, retreated from the 
yard to the trees beyond, among which they sheltered 
themselves from the murderous rifles. 

Keziah heard, at this moment, a heavy creaking and 
rattling of wheels at the back of the house, and, at 
the same instant both of her daughters, who were 
stationed at that side, called to her, in a low voice, 
“ Mother, mother, come here, quick 1” 

“What’s the matter?” said she, hurrying over, 
leaving her rifle, however, poking its muzzle out 
through its loop-hole. “What is it, ’Rushy?” 

“ Why, they’ve got the big wagon across the fence, 
an’ they’re loadin’ it with dry brush. Shall I shoot ?” 
said ’Rushy, eagerly. 

“My souldsl” said Keziah, in dismay; “if they 
hain’t a-goin’ to try and burn us up 1 Keep a sharp look- 
out, gals, an’ pop over every one you kin draw a bead 
on ; we must never let ’em git that wagon up to the 
house, or we’re gone 1 Oh, if the old man an’ the 
boys was only here !” 

“ There’s one, mother, with a big bundle afore him, 
right in range,” said Jemima. “ Shall I shoot ? I can’t 
see his head.” 

“Fire at his waistband,” said the old woman, 
sternly. “ Don’t miss him.” 

“Miss him!” said the girl, cocking her rifle and 
setting the hair trigger. The report followed her 


166 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


words, and the man fell. Another sprang forward to 
seize the bundle, but Keziah, snatching the rifle from 
’Rushy’s hands, darted to the other loop-hole, thrust 
Jemima away, and called through it, “ Drop that, or 
you’re a dead man.” 

The fellow looked up. 

“ Drop it, I say, and go back, or I’ll send you after 
the dog that brought it.” 

The old woman’s temper was now fairly up, and 
she spoke sharply and sternly, without any more 
saving clauses about her unwillingness to shed blood. 

A momentary pause of irresolution on the part of 
the Tory was brought to an end speedily by the crack 
of Jemima’s rifle, which ’Rushy had seized and reloaded, 
and the sight of another of his comrades who was ad- 
vancing with an armful of brushwood, reeling back; - 
with a ball through his shoulder. Suddenly snatching 
up the fallen armful which lay at his feet, he made an 
ineffectual attempt to fling it on the wagon, and then, 
dropping on the ground, rolled rapidly over and over 
till he got behind the latter, his sudden motion just 
saving him from the ball which the exasperated Keziah 
sent after him. 

While this was going on in the rear of the house, 
those in front had not been idle. Screened by the 
trees, they had wasted an immense deal of powder and 
lead in firing with muskets at slits in the wall, which 
it would have required rifles, and hands that knew 
how to use them, to hit with any certainty at the dis- 
tance at which they were firing. A constant fire was 
also kept up by the muskets in the rear from behind 
the wagon, but with no effect, either from front or 
rear, beyond pitting with bullet-holes the solid logs of 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 167 

which the house was built, and gradually filling the air 
around with a thick cloud of smoke. 

It was a still, sultry morning, the precursor of one 
of those relaxing, sweltering September days when 
not a breath of air stirs, and everything in nature 
seems asleep but the heat and the flies ; and even the 
latter are too lazy to let go where they begin to bite, 
merely sidling off at each brush of the hand, and imme- 
diately dropping back to their place and renewing 
their stinging attentions. 

In consequence of the dead stillness, the smoke, as I 
have said, hung thick and low around the house ; and 
Keziah perceived, with an uneasiness she did not ex- 
press, that if it became much more dense it would not 
be difficult for some of the Tories to approach the 
house unperceived. They could only tell where they 
were now by the flash of their guns and pistols; for 
the leader, perceiving the advantage the smoke was 
giving him, quite as promptly as Keziah had done, 
ordered his horsemen to keep up a fire with their 
pistols, in order to increase it. 

There was little fear of the Tories getting into the 
house by any means at their command, if they could 
be prevented from firing the brush in the wagon and 
running it up against the house. Should they succeed 
in that, its destruction was inevitable ; for, built en- 
tirely of wood as it was, and very old, it would burn 
like tinder. 

It had not been erected by Mac Allan, who had 
found it deserted and falling to decay when he took 
possession of it. From its strength, and arrangements 
for defense, it had apparently been built by some 
earlier settler, who had less faith in the pacific disposi- 


16S 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


tion of the Indians around than they deserved; for, in' 
addition to the solid thickness of the walls, the small 
windows, and the loop-holes for firing through, Mac 
Allan found in the cellar, the sides of which were 
rudely lined with rough slabs, one slab which appeared 
to be loose. Trying it, he found it was movable, and, 
pushing it aside, discovered a small opening cut in the 
earth, wide enough to admit his broad shoulders with 
tolerable ease. Following this, he found that it led, 
by a series of roughly-cut steps, to the well, descending 
to a point not far from the water’s edge. Leading olf 
to the left was a natural opening, formed by a rift in 
the stratum of rock which lay beneath the surface of 
the ground. Making his way through this, though it 
was much encumbered with rubbish, he proceeded by 
a very crooked route until he reached a point where it 
enlarged into a rugged cave, with a floor which had 
evidently been cleared and leveled to some extent by 
human hands. It was about eight feet high in the 
highest part, and was large enough to allow some fif- 
teen or twenty people to be seated comfortably. 

It had evidently been used, for the sides and roof 
were black with smoke and soot, and at one side were 
a few stones, piled up so as to form a rude fireplace, 
in which was lying an old iron pot. Satisfied that the 
fireplace could not have been used without some way 
for the smoke to escape, he searched around the walls 
more narrowly by the aid of the candle with which 
he had provided himself, and discovered a pile of de- 
caying logs and brushwood, which had apparently 
been thrown carelessly against the wall to get them 
out of the way. Removing these, he found that they 
covered another opening beneath a shelving rock, high 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


169 


enough to allow him to pass through on his hands 
and knees. 

Following this for about a rod, he emerged beneath 
a mass of overhanging bushes, which entirely concealed 
the opening from without, upon the side of the hill upon 
which the house was built, and about a quarter of a 
mile distant from it. 

The war had begun at the time Mac Allan took pos- 
session of the house, and it struck him very forcibly 
that it would do no harm to have such a place of re- 
treat ready in case of emergency, though he certainly 
had not much apprehension of ever being compelled 
to use it ; so he cleared away the rubbish, to the great 
improvement of the passage leading to the cave, and 
Keziah and her daughters gave two or three days’ hard 
labor to clearing off the soot and smoke from the walls 
of the cave itself, and then whitewashed it all over, 
thus transforming a gloomy dungeon into quite a 
cheerful-looking cell, considering. It had remained in 
this state, undergoing an occasional renovation with 
the whitewash-brush, ever since. 

The well, from which the passage led, was about a 
rod from the house, directly between it and the wagon, 
behind which a number of the enemy were lying, 
effectually concealed from view by it and the thick 
smoke in which it was enveloped. 

Keziah’s thoughts were now occupied with the means 
of procuring water in case the wagon should be fired 
and brought up to the house. 

There was manifestly no possibility of doing it 
above ground, for the well was directly in the line of 
fire from the wagon. It must be brought, if at all, 
from below. 


15 


no TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

“ Thomas,” said Keziah, approaching the Sanfords, 
“ will you take my rifle and watch at the loop-hole 
while me an’ ’Rushy goes down to the well after 
water? We must have some, an’ that soon.” 

Thomas Sanford was placed in a cruel strait On 
the one side were his life-long Quaker principles, for- 
bidding him to fight or resist. On the other was the 
consciousness that a family of women, on whom his 
own had no claim whatever, except that which every 
human being has upon every other for assistance in 
time of need, had been fighting for him and his, and 
were now exposed to imminent danger arising solely 
from attempting to protect him. The very service he 
was now asked to render had grown legitimately out 
of the danger to which they were exposed. Besides, 
Quaker though he was, he had, all along, an uneasy 
feeling that he was allowing Keziah to do work which, 
if it must be done at all, belonged properly to him, and 
not to a woman. 

He looked inquiringly at his wife as these thoughts 
struck him. 

“ I can’t advise, Thomas,” said she. “ Thee must act 
as thee feels free to do.” 

“Surely it don’t seem right,” said he, “that these 
friends — women, too — should bear all, the burden of the 
danger we have brought on them, and I, the only man 
here, refuse to help when asked. It don’t seem right. 
I won’t.” 

So saying, Thomas took the rifle from the hands of 
Keziah, and stationed himself at the loop-hole she had 
quitted. 

The latter then turned to Jenny, and asked her if she 
thought she could take ’Rushy’s place for a little while. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 171 

Jenny shook her head with a melancholy smile. 

“ I’d be of no use there,” said she ; “ I never fired a 
gun in my life, and don’t know how either to aim or 
load it. But I can do better than that. Do thee take 
’Rushy’s place, and let her and me bring the water. 
I’ve had some practice in that,” she added, smiling 
again, faintly. 

“To be sure,” exclaimed Keziah. “What an old 
goose I am, to think nobody can work but me ! Now, 
down cellar with ye, an’ pass up water as fast as ye 
can, an’ I’ll get the tubs ready.” 

The two girls descended to the well by the passage 
before spoken of, and for the next half-hour were busily 
engaged in passing up water, until four tubs, all the 
house could boast, were filled. Only one of these was 
in the lower room, the other three having been taken 
up-stairs and filled there, to be ready when the roof 
should take fire, there being no doubt that it would be 
the first thing to go. 

The firing from the outside was kept up moderately, 
the smoke still hanging low and thick, while for some 
time no shot had been fired from within. Just as 
’Rushy came up, however, with the last bucket of water, 
an exclamation of surprise was heard from Jemima, 
followed instantly by the crack of her rifle, and the ex- 
clamation, “ Missed him, consarn it all!” 

“Missed who, Jemima?” said her mother. “Who 
did you shoot at ?” 

“ Yankee Nat, that used to live here,” said the girl, 
speaking low between her clinched teeth, and busily 
reloading her rifle ; “ if he shows that long nose of his’n 
in range agin, I reckon he won’t git away with it.” 

The girl’s face, -which had more pretensions to good 


172 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


% 


looks than that of either of her sisters, was as pale as 
death, but not with fear, as was very evident from the 
dilating eyes, which were fairly blazing, and the rigid 
lips, which were drawn tightly across the clinched 
teeth. Indeed, Nat — for it was the fellow who had sug- 
gested the plan of attacking the house — owed his life to 
the trembling of Jemima’s hand, caused by the sudden 
overpowering rush of anger which the sight of him had 
produced. 

“Yankee Nat!” said Keziah ; “is that sneakin’, 
treacherous varmint among ’em ? Keep a sharp look- 
out for him, gals, and don’t let him git away, if you 
kin see him. We’ve got an account to settle with 
him.” 

“ What has he done ?” inquired Martha, who, as well 
as her husband and Jenny, had observed the sudden 
emotion of Jemima, and did not understand it. “ What’s 
the matter?” 

“ Matter enough,” said Keziah, bitterly. “ He said 

things to Jemima when he was hej;e, ay, an’ Well, no 

matter ! if he had been about the place when the old 
man an’ the boys come home that afternoon, he’d ha’ 
behaved himself forever afterward.” 


I 


m 


CHAPTER XIII. 

It had not been necessary for Thomas Sanford to 
discharge his rifle at all ; and he very willingly returned 
it to ’Rushy, who took her place at the loop-hole, 
eagerly but unsuccessfully looking out for Nat. 

The enemy, having now piled a large quantity of 
brushwood upon the wagon, succeeded in running it 
up to the house under cover of the smoke, and placing 
it sideways against the wall. In this position, and 
reaching up to the second-story windows, it obstructed 
the loop-holes effectually, and of course put an end to 
the danger from the rifles on that side. 

It was not many minutes before those within heard 
the crackling of fire in the wagon, and perceived the 
smell of burning wood, which stole, with the pungent 
smoke, through the openings. 

Leaving the girls to defend the front against attack 
on that side, Keziah and Thomas Sanford went up- 
stairs to be ready to fight the fire. They did not have 
to wait long; for the dry, light brushwood burned 
almost like straw, and in a few moments light-blue jets 
of flame came shooting up through the mass, darting 
forth and back like the forked tongues of serpents. 
Here and there a bunch of dead leaves would kindle, 
as one of these sharp tongues shot through it, blaze up 
into a yellow flame, and then die out. 

Faster and faster came the jets, turning from blue to 
15* ( 113 ) 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


m 

yellow, and then deepening to red, shooting higher and 
higher, curling and swaying back and forth with an 
angry crackle and roar, lapping the sides of the house 
and the dry eaves greedily. Keziah and her compan- 
ion had not been idle, but from the first appearance of 
the flames had been dashing buckets of water upon 
them, assisted by Martha and Jenny, who had been 
called up by Thomas. 

The occasional crack of a rifle from the room below 
showed that the girls were on the alert to prevent the 
door from being forced, some demonstrations of which 
had been made, at the expense of the lives of two or 
three more of the besiegers. 

Still the fearless woman above, with her companions, 
battled stubbornly with the increasing fire, till the 
flakes from the kindling roof began to fall within, and 
the room was so full of smoke that they could hardly 
breathe. 

They then retreated to the room below, and Keziah, 
briefly telling Thomas and his companions to follow, 
descended rapidly to the cellar, and, leading the way 
to the passage which turned off to the left, directed 
them to follow it to the cave, and there wait till she 
and her daughters should join them. 

There was no time for parley, and they set out at 
once. 

Keziah hastened back to the room where her daugh- 
ters were still watching at the loop-holes, and, bidding 
them collect what food and clothes they could, not for- 
getting a bag of Spanish dollars which her husband 
kept stored for emergencies, prepared to follow the 
Sanfords, leaving the house to its fate. 

The whole roof was by this time on fire, and the « 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


175 


sparks were beginning to fall thickly into the room 
through the stairway. The firing from the outside had 
ceased, while the besiegers watched the progress of the 
flames, and the inmates of the house were about to de- 
scend to the cellar, when they heard the heavy tramp 
of a column of soldiers, and the sharp, stern orders, — 

“ Run that wagon from the house ! seize the tongue 
and away with it to the fence ! Quick, you ruffians ! 
By my life, if it stands there one moment longer, I’ll 
have the ringleader tossed into it, to try how he likes 
his handiwork! Away with it!” 

There was no doubt that the speaker meant to be 
obeyed, and half a dozen of the Tories sprang to the 
tongue, and ran the wagon, with its burning load, as 
far from the house as possible. 

“ Now, who’s in the house?” said the voice, sharply. 

“Don’t know,” was the answer; “’cept one old 
woman an’ some blasted good rifles that’s knocked 
over six or eight of us.” 

“Women!” exclaimed the other, darting around to 
the front of the house. 

As he reached the door, it was opened from within, 
and Keziah stood before him, her gray locks hanging 
in disorder, as they had fallen when her comb was 
shot away, about her smoke-grimed face, and her 
three daughters, each with her rifle in her hand, 
standing immediately behind her. 

“ If you are an English officer, and a man, we claim 
your protection agin that gang of cowardly wolves,” 
said she. 

“You shall have it, madam; you shall have it,” 
said he. “ I’m sorry I wasn’t able to afford it earlier; 
I’m afraid there’s no hope of saving the house.” 


176 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“None,” said Keziah; “let it burn.” 

“Are there no men in the house?” inquired the 
officer, in surprise, as he looked from the grim figure 
of Keziah to her daughters and back again. “Are you 
all the force here ?” 

“Yes,” said Keziah, “one old woman an’ three 
gals, with a rifle apiece, is what’s kep’ a hundred 
Tories off sin’ sun-up, an’ would ha’ kep’ ’em off till 
sun-down, if they hadn’t ha’ managed to git the old 
wagon up to the house an’ set it afire.” 

“ Four women holding a log house for hours against 
a hundred men ! If all your countrymen had your 
courage and determination, we should have been 
driven from the country long ago,” said the officer. 
“As for you, you cowardly hounds, that attack women 
twenty-five to one,” he added, turning to the Tories, 
“ you have been doing brigands’ work, and you shall 
have brigands’ pay. Lay down your arms.” 

“ D d if we do,” said one, who appeared to have 

some command. “ Who the d 1 are you, that under- 

takes to order his Majesty’s soldiers to lay down their 
arms ?” 

“ Your superior officer, sir,” said the young captain, 
“ and one who means to be obeyed. ‘ Soldiers’ !” he 
added, with his lip curling ; “ a gang of lawless ruffians, 
rather, that disgrace any cause they fight for. We’ll 
see what General Howe thinks of such soldiers. De- 
liver your sword to the sergeant ; you and your men 
are under arrest.” 

The whole house was now on fire, burning furiously; 
and all present had moved some distance away, to 
avoid the heat, which was intense. 

The temporary leader of the Tories sullenly offered 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. m 

his sword to the captain, for he saw that his force was 
greatly outnumbered ; the latter, however, turned his 
back upon him, motioning the sergeant to take it. 

“And now, madam,” said he, turning to Keziah, 
“you have been deprived of a home by these scoun- 
drels : is there any place where you can stay, with 
your family, for the present? We will escort you 
safely to any place you wish.” 

“ Thank’e,” said she ; “ but there’s a neighbor’s house 
not far off, where we can stay till such time as my old 
man an’ the boys can knock up a shanty.” 

“ You have a husband, then ?” 

“Yes, an’ ten boys;” the captain involuntarily 
raised his eyebrows slightly, but Keziah went on with- 
out noticing it: “if they’d been at home, we’d ha’ druv’ 
off all these scum long ago.” 

“Where are your sons?” inquired the officer. “In 
the American army ?” 

Keziah hesitated. 

“ Don’t tell me, if you had rather not,” said he ; “I 
only wish, however, to befriend them, should it ever be 
in my power.” 

“Well,” said Keziah, “they’re not exactly in the 
army ; they’re with Clayton’s Rangers now.” 

“ Clayton’s Rangers 1” said the officer ; “ I ought to 
know them. Isn’t the first lieutenant a gentleman 
named Barton ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Keziah ; “ I never seen any 
cf ’em till yesterday. I think the officer’s name was 
Bettle.” 

“The same: he was another lieutenant. I don’t 
want to know where they are,” he added, in a low 
voice; “but, if you know, I think, in the unsettled 


IIS 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


state of the country, you had better get yourself and 
your daughters under the protection of the troop as 
soon as possible. Should you see Lieutenant Barton, 
tell him that Captain Gardner desired to be remembered 
to him and the other officers.” 

The soldiers now prepared for departure with their 
prisoners, Keziah declining any escort, saying “they 
could git along without any trouble, if he would only 
drive them wolves away.” 

Captain Gardner, after repeating his offer of an es- 
cort, which Keziah again declined, bade them good-by 
kindly, and his men, with the disarmed Tories in front 
of them, filed away through the woods, and were soon 
out of sight. 

As soon as the coast was clear, Keziah and her 
daughters hurried to where the cave opened on the 
hill-side. 

“ Somebody’s been through these bushes,” said 
Hannah, pointing to some twigs which were broken 
off, and at the leaves which were turned in some dis- 
order and stripped off. 

“ I hope they hain’t been so foolish as to come out 
by themselves,” said Keziah. 

Stooping down to the mouth of the cave, she called; 
but no answer was returned. 

A sudden exclamation from Jemima brought Keziah 
away from the cave to the foot of the hill. 

“ See here, mother,” said the girl ; “ here’s horse- 
tracks. What’s that mean V 

“Horse-tracks!” said Keziah; “then there’s been 
treachery somewhere, and they’re carried off, sure. 
Nobody ’d be likely to bring horses here for anything 
else.” 


KEZIAH AND HER DAUGHTERS. Page 79. 






THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 179 

“I’ll soon see,” said Jemima, coolly, “whether 
they’re in the cave or not.” 

And the fearless girl, armed with her rifle, from 
which she had never parted, walked to the entrance, 
crouched upon her hands and knees, and disappeared 
beneath the bushes and the shelving rock. 

The others followed her at once, with their rifles, 
partly from curiosity, and partly to assist her in case 
there should be any danger. 

They soon reached the interior of the cave; but it 
was empty. They proceeded along the passage to the 
well, found the opening into the cellar blocked up with 
fallen timbers from the house, which was now a heap 
of smouldering ruins, still finding no trace of the ob- 
ject of their search. 

Turning on their steps, they retraced their way 
toward the cave. When about fifty yards distant, Ke- 
ziah, who was in advance, suddenly stopped, saying, — 

“ Hark ! what’s that ?” 

All stopped, listened, and heard unmistakably the 
sound of an axe, falling slowly in heavy blows, appar- 
ently proceeding from the cave. 

Beckoning her daughters closer to her, Keziah now 
moved along more slowly and cautiously than before, 
the girls following close in her rear. 

Arrived at a jutting point of rock which projected 
partially across the passage, just before it opened into 
the cave itself, Keziah stopped again, and all four con- 
cealed themselves behind it and listened again. 

The blows of the axe still continued, and, after a mo- 
ment’s listening, ’Rushy, who was next her mother, 
saw her face, haggard enough before, suddenly grow 
pale as death. 


180 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

“ What’s the matter, mother ?” she whispered, anx- 
iously. 

“That axe is' outside the cave, gal, right at the 
mouth,” said Keziah. 

“ So it is,” said she, listening, but unable to imagine 
why her mother was so agitated. “ I wonder who it 
can be choppin’ there, just now.” 

“ Choppin’ !” said Keziah; “don’t you know the 
sound of an axe-edge better ’n that ? That’s the butt 
of an axe, drivin’ a stake in the ground. We’re shut 
in !” 

A look of dismay glanced from face to face, and 
then, as by one impulse, they all hurried past the pro- 
jection into the cave, seizing their rifles, which had 
been leaning against the rock, and then to its mouth. 

But there they stopped ; for, jammed partly under 
the shelving rock which formed the mouth, was a large 
stone, closing up the aperture entirely, except one spot 
at the upper right-hand corner, where the light came, 
broken by the bushes outside, through a small opening 
not larger than Keziah’s hand. 

Placing her shoulder against the stone, and beckon- 
ing her daughters to assist her, they all exerted their 
utmost strength to move it, but in vain. Twenty times 
their strength, exerted at the disadvantage of their con- 
strained position in the low passage, would have suc- 
ceeded no better. 

They moved back to the higher part of the cave, a 
few feet from the stone, and crouched on the floor, 
Keziah groaning aloud in bitterness of spirit. 

At this moment the small aperture I have mentioned 
was darkened, and a voice with a villainously exag- 
gerated nasal twang whined through it, — 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


181 


“Wal, naow, daon’t you feel comf’ble, Keziah ? 
Whar’s Jemimy ? I reckon ” 

What was reckoned did not appear; for the speech 
was cut short by the report of Jemima’s rifle, she hav- 
ing recognized the voice and caught a glimpse, as it 
peered through the opening into the darkness, of the 
face of Yankee Nat, and instantly fired at it. 

Half stunned by the report, and blinded by the 
smoke, they were uncertain at first whether he had 
been hit or not ; but the next moment, though they 
could see nothing, they heard the voice again, exclaim- 
ing,— 

“ Cre-a-tion I w r hat a she-painter ! Good-by, Keziar ; 
’member me to Jemimy.” And then they heard a mock- 
ing laugh growing fainter and fainter in the distance 
as the villain rode deliberately off and left his en- 
trapped victims to their fate. 

The prospect before them was not encouraging. At 
the mouth of the cave was the stone, jammed tightly 
in, and then secured further by two stout stakes driven 
deeply into the ground close to it, rendering it impos- 
sible to move it except from the outside. At the other 
end of the long passage all egress was barred by the 
timbers which had fallen into the cellar, so that there 
was absolutely no way to get out except by climbing 
straight up the perpendicular sides of the well ; a feat 
to the performance of which neither of the prisoners 
felt herself competent. 


16 


CHAPTER XI Y. 


When Thomas Sanford and his family, after some 
difficulty, reached the cave, they found themselves in 
the clutches of Yankee Nat and six of the other Tories, 
who were there waiting, not for them, but for the Mac 
Allans. 

“ Jee rew-sl’m !” exclaimed Nat: “this is better 
still. Haow’s thee do, Thomas ?” he added, in that 
devilish, mocking, nasal drawl of his, and snuffling ; 
“didn’t expect the pleasure o’ thy company to-day. 
Friends, this is Thomas Sanford, whar we got licked 
from his house last Thursday night by the bloody 
Rangers ’t licked us yesterday mornin’, an’ lost five of 
our best men.” 

There was something in the voice that uttered this 
remarkable bit of involved grammar, which Jenny was 
sure she had heard before ; and, taking a better look at 
its owner, she recognized in him the fellow who had 
insulted her on the Thursday evening he had now re- 
ferred to. 

Carefully avoiding any sign of recognition, however, 
but with spirits by no means lightened by this dis- 
covery, she stood silent, with her eyes cast down to 
avoid those of Nat, which she felt were bent upon her. 

“Naow, boys,” resumed Nat, “I reckon we’re got 
’baout th’ best luck we could ha’ had. These here 
folks is wuth suthin’ to captivate. Th’ old woman an’ 
( 182 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


183 


her gals wan’t no ’caount at all, in comparison o’ 
these.” 

“ What’s that ?” interrupted one of the others ; “ the 
firm’s stopped.” 

“ Wal,” said Nat, “ ’sposin’ you squirm out an’ see ; 
you’re nearder th’ hole ’n anybody else.” 

The man accordingly crawled out to reconnoitre ; in 
a few minutes he was back at the entrance, calling 
eagerly, but in a suppressed voice, — 

“Nat ! I say, Nat, come here quick I” 

Nat dived into the low passage, and made his way 
as rapidly as possible to its mouth. 

“Fetch all hands out,” said the fellow: “the house 

is blazin’ like a haystack, but there’s the d 1 knows 

how many Reg’lars around it, an’ all our fellows is 
disarmed.” 

“ Then we must run for it,” said Nat, in a sharp, 
quick tone, strongly in contrast with his ordinary 
drawl; “get the horses ready;” and then, backing into 
the cave again, hurried the other men, with the prison- 
ers, into the open air, giving the latter, as they emerged, 
a stern and hurried warning to be silent. The Tories 
then mounted their horses, from which, however, three 
of them, from very shame, soon dismounted, to allow 
their prisoners to ride, and all except Nat immediately 
disappeared in the woods, taking a roundabout course 
to the rendezvous they had left in the morning. 

Nat, instead of going with them, led his horse off out 
of sight into the woods, and then concealed himself 
among the bushes, with which the ground was over- 
run, to await the coming of Keziah and her daughters, 
who he felt sure would not be long in looking after 
their guests, if they were left at liberty. 


184 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


He had, as Keziah had said, lived with the Mac 
Allans for a short time. He had not been there a week 
before, with his prying Yankee curiosity, he had fer- 
reted out the whole secret of the cave and the subter- 
ranean passage to it, in spite of all the care that was 
taken to keep him in ignorance of it. He was a close- 
mouthed fellow about his own affairs, however, and 
always kept his knowledge to himself until he should 
find an opportunity to bring it into use. 

He was satisfied that if the women were not already 
in the passage, the entrance to it in the cellar was so 
blocked up by the ruins of the house that the cave 
could not be reached from that direction. 

Accordingly, he had waited patiently in his conceal- 
ment until Keziah and her daughters had entered the 
cave. As soon as they disappeared, he crept stealthily 
up to the mouth, and, having heard their voices die 
in the distance as they moved tow r ard the well, had 
rolled up the large stone and secured it as already 
described. 

When he had got through his laugh, he put spurs to 
his horse, and galloped after his party. 

Arrived at the rendezvous^ they remained there 
through the day and the greater part of the night, and 
about an hour before daybreak started with their pris- 
oners for the farm-house. 

It was impossible to avoid passing Deborah’s Rock 
without making a wide detour, which would have con- 
sumed too much time, and Nat, who acted as guide, 
determined to run the risk of skirting it, trusting partly 
to Jenny’s fears to keep her from giving any alarm, and 
partly to the hope of getting past the dangerous point 
without her knowledge. He miscalculated both her 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


185 


timidity and her acquaintance with the country, as the 
event showed. 

He had sprung to her side when she, screamed for 
help, and leveled his pistol at her head, but recovered 
his coolness instantly, and lowered it again ; for her 
death was not consistent with his ultimate designs. It 
was no lingering gentleness, no touch of pity for the 
young, helpless girl who had thus been thrown so un- 
expectedly into his power, that held his hand: Nat, 
son of Belial as he was, would have snuffled contempt- 
uously at being charged with any such weakness. 

Well was it for Jenny Sanford that Dandy Harry’s 
knife so effectually unsettled his plans and sent him 
home to his master that morning; for the guard whom 
Harry had dispatched so promptly just before the at- 
tack on the house was no other than Yankee Nat. He 
has gone to his own place, and will appear no more. 

All through the day, in the mean time, Keziah Mac 
Allan and her daughters had remained prisoners in the 
cave, not sitting with their hands in their laps, but 
wearying themselves out in vain attempts, now to pry 
away the stone with their rifle-barrels, now to force 
their way into the cellar. 

At last, as evening came on, completely overcome 
with fatigue, they sank down on the floor of the cave, 
and went to sleep. 

They slept soundly, whether long or not they could 
not tell. Keziah was awakened at last by a touch on 
her shoulder. 

Opening her eyes with a start, and catching an in- 
distinct glimpse, in the gloom, of a man’s figure, she 
sprang to her feet, making a grasp at her rifle, which 
lay beside her, as she rose. 

16 * 


186 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“ My sakes alive, K’ziah,” said a well-known voice, 
“ but Pm glad to find you an’ the gals alive ! But 
what’s been up? Here’s the house burnt down, an’ 
you fastened here in the cave. Where’s Tommy San- 
ford an’ his folks ?” 

Conquering an instinctive feminine tendency to hys- 
terics, Keziah briefly detailed the events I have de- 
scribed, stating that they had held out till the house was 
beginning to tumble over their heads, that they had 
sent on the Sanfords in advance, not suspecting that 
Nat knew the secret of the cave; their missing and 
searching for them, and their imprisonment. 

“That’s what the firin’ meant, this mornin’, then,” 
said Mac Allan, after she had finished ; “ we heerd 
it, an’ seen the smoke, but thought it was furder off. 
Well, we can’t do anything to-night; we must go over 
to the neighbor’s now, an’ start by sun-up for the 
Rock, to let Captain Clayton know the Sanfords are 
missin’.” 

Accordingly, having spent the night at the neigh- 
bor’s, they made an early start in the morning, and, as 
we have seen, reached the Rock just before the San- 
fords and the party who had rescued them returned 
with the dead body of Mahlon. 

The account which Keziah had been giving Clayton 
of the cause of their presence there, had been inter- 
rupted by the arrival of the party, and had not been 
resumed until after the burial ; the Sanfords had with- 
drawn a little apart, and were sitting by themselves ; 
and Keziah, at Clayton’s request, stepping out of ear- 
shot, resumed her narrative in a low voice. 

When she mentioned Captain Gardner’s name, he 
interrupted her to ask about his personal appearance. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


187 


Keziah described him as well as she could, and with 
sufficient accuracy to enable Clayton to recognize him. 

“He named one o’ your leftenants in partic’lar.” 

“Was it Wheeler or Wetherill ?” said Clayton. 

“ No, that wan’t the name,” Said she, considering a 
moment. “ I think it was Barnet, or Burton, or some- 
thin’ ” 

“ Barton ?” said he. 

“Yes, — Barton: that was it.” 

Barton, who had heard his name spoken by the cap- 
tain, came over to where they were talking, supposing 
he had been called. 

“ Thee remembers the young Englishman thee took 
the other night, at the spring below New Castle, 
Levi ?” said Clayton. 

“ Yes,” said Barton. “ Have you seen him ?” 

“Friend Keziah, here, saw him yesterday, at a 
very fortunate time for her. He was the means of 
saving her and her daughters from burning to death 
in their own house, or falling into the hands of the 
remnant of the gang we drove from here on Sixth day 
night.” 

“ Had he any force with him ?” inquired Barton. 
“He must have got to work without much delay after 
he was exchanged.” 

“Yes, he had considerable force,” said Clayton. 
“ I’ll tell thee all about it after awhile. I would like 
to hear the rest of thy story, now, Keziah.” 

“There hain’t much more to tell,” said she; and 
then went on to describe the disarming of the Tories, 
and their own adventure in the cave, their discovery 
and release by her husband, and their journey to the 
Rock. 


188 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“Then the gang is completely broken up, I sus- 
pect,” said Clayton ; “ all their fighting-men, who 

survive, are prisoners. Our work with them is done. 
We will stay here, however, till thy sons come in, 
and then try for a few days whether we can pick up 
some recruits ; for our ranks have been terribly thinned 
in the last three weeks ; only what thee sees — about 
forty men — left out of a hundred.” And Clayton and 
his lieutenant looked sadly around upon their scanty 
force. 


CHAPTER XV. 


On Tuesday morning all the scouts came in together. 
They had tracked the Regulars, with their prisoners, 
from the burned house, to the outpost of the British 
army, supposing that all who had been left in the house 
were prisoners, and then came back to report. 

They were, of course, a good deal surprised to find 
those they had been seeking, all safe among friends. 

The Rangers now abandoned the Rock, and, at 
Thomas Sanford’s earnest solicitation, quartered them- 
selves at his house until they should be ready to leave 
the neighborhood. Mac Allan and his family also went 
there, and made it their home for some time after the 
departure of the troop, Martha absolutely refusing to 
let them go away until the cabin, which the old man 
and his sons (whom Clayton had directed to remain 
for the purpose, and join him as soon as possible after- 
ward) had at once set about building, was completed. 

It was on the afternoon of Tuesday, the 16th of 
September, that the Rangers returned to the old house, 
from the Rock. 

In the five days which had elapsed since their re- 
treat from Brandywine, including the night of that sad 
day, they had gone through fighting enough to satisfy 
the most reckless fire-eater among them all ; and Clay- 
ton and his officers were not sorry to have the oppor- 
tunity of a few days’ exemption from it. Bettle cer- 

(189) 


190 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


tainly had no objection to the prospect of a little quiet 
enjoyment of Jenny’s society, now that the recent 
events had brought about a tacit understanding be- 
tween them, which needed no formal declarations on 
either side. 

The relation between them was by this time as 
well understood by all the troop as it was by them- 
selves ; and by common consent, not expressed, but 
universally acted upon, Jenny was left to her lover, 
with no more particular attentions from the other 
officers than civility and a strong liking for her called 
for. 

Moreover, Clayton — who, though as brave as any man 
in his troop, and as unsparing in battle when his spirit 
was fairly up, was no fire-eater — had observed, with 
some uneasiness, that the constant fighting and excite- 
ment of the last two or three weeks had developed 
symptoms of a taste for blood-letting among the wilder 
and rougher men of the troop, which was not at all in 
accordance with his views. He was anxious, there- 
fore, on this account also, to have a little time for them 
to cool down. 

There was but little “ soldiering” done, therefore, 
during the few days they remained at Sanford’s, with 
the exception of training the new recruits, of whom 
some twenty in all — about enough to mount the rider- 
less horses which had followed the troop from Bir- 
mingham — were obtained from the neighborhood. 

This was less difficult than might have been sup- 
posed, considering the consternation which the defeat 
at Brandywine had spread over all this section of the 
country. The knowledge, which spread like wild-fire, 
that the Rangers, with only forty men, had succeeded 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


191 


in beating off and scattering two hundred Tories with 
Black Rawdon at their head, besides killing the dreaded 
chief himself, had produced a strong persuasion of the 
invincibility of the troop. 

With the exception of drilling morning and evening, 
for the benefit of the new recruits, the men did pretty 
much as they pleased through the day, though Clay- 
ton always had two or three of his hard-riding scouts 
out scouring the country for information of the enemy’s 
movements. 

Those who remained at home employed themselves 
principally in fishing in the creek or gunning in the 
woods around, turning their carbines into fowling- 
pieces for the time, and bringing home many a palatable 
mess of birds and fish, and, on one occasion, a deer ; 
for deer were still occasionally found in that part of 
Chester county. 

Besides this, they did what they could on the farm, 
to requite Thomas Sanford for his hospitality. His 
corn was ready to cut, and on the morning after their 
return to the house the whole troop turned in, with 
their swords for “cutters,” and had the whole of it cut 
and shocked by dinner time. 

They gathered in the apples from the orchard and 
stored them away, and finished his fall ploughing, 
which had been interrupted by the raid of the Tories 
upon him. 

Of course, with so many mouths to provide for, the 
female portion of the household, strengthened though 
they were by the addition of Keziah and her daughters, 
were kept pretty actively employed. It was better, 
perhaps, that it was so, as it kept Jenny and her 
mother from dwelling too much upon the loss of Mali- 


192 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

Ion, at least during the day. But their pillows were 
wet with tears at night, and for many a night after- 
ward, during that fall and winter. 

Mike devoted himself mainly to the horses, carefully 
avoiding Bettle’s Boland, however, having a very dis- 
tinct recollection of his former experience with him, and 
seeing very plainly that Roland had not forgotten it 
either. Whenever he came near the horse, the ears 
laid back, the suddenly dilated nostrils, the breath 
hissed forcibly through them, and the glare of his 
broad black eye as it followed all his motions vigi- 
lantly, gave him warnings which he could not mistake, 
to keep out of reach. 

On one occasion, when Roland had inadvertently 
been placed in a different stall from the one he usually 
occupied, he suddenly lashed out his heels at the poor 
fellow, who was unconsciously passing him, and came 
within an ace of dashing his brains out. 

The stable-door, which was opposite the stall, re- 
ceived the blow, and was driven open from its fasten- 
ings as if by the shock of a battering-ram. 

Mike sprang head-foremost through the door, and, 
when at a safe distance, stopped and shook his fist 
wrathfully at the savage beast, exclaiming, — 

“Tunder an’ turf! ye spalpeen, if ye wasn’t Mr. 
Bettle’s baste I’d hamsthring ye for that, an’ spile 
them pavin’-stones o’ hales for iver an’ a day.” 

Bettle, who was on the gangway of the barn at the 
moment, heard the crash, followed by Mike’s voice, 
and, suspecting what was the matter, hastened down. 

“ Mike,” said he, “ I’m sorry the horse seems to have 
such an enmity to you, and I really don’t know how 
to cure it.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


193 


“Inmity, is it !” ejaculated Mike. 11 Tare an’ ouns ! 
he’s a divil entirely for bearin’ malice. But, faix, it’s 
me that didn’t go near ’im o’ purpose ; some omadhaun 
or other put ’im in the wrong stall ; if ye’d plase tell 
’im to put the brute where he belongs, an’ kape puttin’ 
’im there, I’ll know how to kape out o’ his way.” 

Bettle called the trooper who had charge of Roland, 
and had him removed to his proper stall, after admin- 
istering a severe reprimand for his carelessness, for the 
man acknowledged, in answer to his question, that he 
knew the horse’s antipathy to Mike perfectly well, but 
had changed his place in the stable without thinking. 

Bettle and Jenny were not so busy but that they 
found time in the evenings, after supper, to take a few 
long, quiet strolls together; and very pleasant strolls 
they were, through the meadows, and along the banks 
of the beautiful, quiet stream, which flowed on as 
calmly and peacefully as if no sound but the murmur of 
lovers’ voices had ever mingled with the sough of the 
autumn wind through the corn that waved and rustled 
on its banks, and among the trees that drooped over 
them. 

The lovers had many things to talk about ; the trials 
and troubles that had crowded upon them in the last 
few days, the uncertain prospect for the future, their 
reliance on each other, — for these same troubles had 
swept away all reserve, and they talked freely and un- 
restrainedly, — and the hope that better times would 
come, when all these alarms would be at an end. 

It would have sounded curiously to those who only 
knew Bettle as the reckless dare-devil partisan officer, 
to hear him talk of the delights of a quiet, farmer’s life, 
and of his longing for the time when he could forsake 
• 17 


194 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


the wild, restless life he was now leading for what he 
saw, in the light of the new feeling that had come over 
him, was a far higher and better one ; not that he had 
any thought of leaving it now, however, for the con- 
viction of duty which first led him to adopt it was as 
powerful as ever. 

Neither did Jenny urge it, for she had come to see 
the question in the same light as he himself did, and 
would not have persuaded him to abandon his duty, if 
she could. 

With all her quiet happiness at these times, how- 
ever, the poor girl was sad enough, for she had loved 
the boy who had fallen in the attempt to save her, with 
all the fondness of an affectionate nature, and his death 
weighed constantly and heavily upon her spirits. 
Perhaps she clung the more tenderly to Bettle for this 
loss : transferring to him the affection whose tendrils 
had been so rudely torn away from the object to which 
they had previously attached themselves. 

As they walked along the bank of the creek, on one 
of these evenings, they had been talking of Mahlon, 
and Jenny at last said, — 

“ But, indeed, William, it does seem hard that the 
youngest should be taken thus, and in the only battle 
he was ever in.” 

“ It is a sad loss, the more so as he was so young 
and had attached us all to him so much. Jenny, as 
we stood around him and John after the fight on that 
sad morning, I saw the lips working and big tears 
running, unnoticed by themselves, down the faces of 
some of my own men, who I suspect had never shed 
them since they were as young as the poor boy they 
were grieving for.” 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


195 


“ Those wild, stern, reckless-looking men ! They 
look as if nothing could ever move them,” said Jenny. 
“But it is strange that my brother was the only one 
killed in such a fight as John described to me. How 
did thee escape, so reckless and daring as he says thee 
is ?” 

“I have to thank you, Jenny, for my life in that 
affair,” said Bettle. 

“Me!” she exclaimed, gazing at him with that 
earnest look I have before spoken of. “ How could I 
have anything to do with saving thee ?” 

“You had all to do with it, humanly speaking, 
Jenny,” said he. “ Do you remember the shoe you 
dropped as you were going along ?” 

“ Yes,” said she; “I watched my chance and let it 
fall from my foot, in hopes that they might have heard 
me on the Rock when I called for help, and would fol- 
low and find it, so as to know we were not far off.” 

“Just what Frank did. Well, I took the shoe,” he 
said, with a smile, “ because it was yours and I thought 
I had the best right to it, and slipped it into my belt 
for safe-keeping. When Barton first ordered the 
Tories to surrender, I was standing beside him, and 
their leader fired his pistol at us ; I had just stepped in 
front of Barton, and felt myself driven back a step or 
two as the fellow fired ; I had been hit, sure enough, 
but the shoe stopped the ball, which struck fair in the 
heel, and buried itself there, leaving me to thank your 
foresight in dropping it for my life.” 

“ Does thee know,” she asked, changing the subject, 
“whether the captain intends to stay here long? I 
don’t know whether it’s right to feel so, but I can’t 
help hoping that it will be a long time before thee is 


196 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


called off to do any more of this dreadful fighting. I 
can’t bear to think of thy being in such constant 
danger. What would I do if thee should be killed, as 
my brother was ?” 

Bettle made no answer to this ; nor, indeed, did 
Jenny expect any, and they returned in silence to the 
house, where they found the men gathered around 
Frank, who had apparently been telling them some 
news, for they were all alive with excitement. 

Frank had been absent since the afternoon before, 
scouting in the direction of Philadelphia, and had just 
returned with information that the British were posted 
near Tredvffrin Church, and that “ Mad Anthony,” with 
fifteen hundred men, had been detached to annoy his 
rear and divert his attention while Washington crossed 
the Schuylkill at Parker’s Ferry with what was left of 
the main army. 

There was but little probability that any more diffi- 
culty with the Tories would be experienced by the 
Sanfords, or any other family in that neighborhood; 
and Clayton at once determined to join Wayne, the 
service in which the latter was employed being of a 
character peculiarly in his own line, and the men being 
eager to be at work again. 

Everything, therefore, was prepared for an early 
march the next morning. A messenger was sent to 
Mac Allan’s to see if his cabin was sufficiently advanced 
to enable him to do without his boys. The latter came 
back with the messenger, all ready for service, having 
just finished putting the roof on the cabin so as to afford 
some shelter, though the openings between the logs of 
which the walls were formed had not yet been filled up. 

The evening was spent in moulding balls, preparing 


THE QUAKER PARTISAN & m 

cartridges, sharpening knives and swords, and clean- 
ing fire-arms. 

The next morning, by half an hour after sunrise, the 
Rangers had dispatched a substantial breakfast, and 
were in the saddle in marching order. 

In a few minutes more they had passed out of sight, 
carrying with them the fervent blessings of those they 
had saved ; while Jenny looked after them, with 
dimmed eyes, through the tears she, this time, took no 
pains to hide. 


n* 


% 











CHAPTER XVI. 


The Rangers moved rapidly on, not along the main 
road, but south of it, over the same route that had been 
taken eight days before by Frank when guiding the 
Sanfords’ escort, till they reached the spot where Mac 
Allan was at work “ chinkin’ an’ daubin’,” as he 
phrased it, at his cabin ; that is, in English, filling up 
the gaps between the logs with stones and mud. 

As the troop halted for a moment, the old man sus- 
pended his work, and came forward. 

“ How do ? how do ?” he exclaimed, cordially ; “you 
see, we’re a’most got into the house agin. ^ They don’t 
build their grand houses in Philadelphy this fast, do 
they, capt’n ?” he added, addressing Clayton. 

“No, not quite,” said he, dryly ; “they generally take 
a good many times four days to get a house under roof, 
and then take a month or two after they’ve done, to 
finish it.” 

“ But where are ye bound now ?” said the old man. 
“ For the city ?” 

“Not directly,” said Clayton, and, approaching Mac 
Allan, leaned down from his horse and whispered in 
his ear. 

The latter shook his head doubtfully. 

“ I don’t like that much,” he muttered ; “ there’s too 
many Tories about there, that knows the country 
enough sight better’n Mad Anthony or any of his men. 

( 198 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


199 


He’ll find himself in a trap afore he knows it, if he 
don’t look out.” 

“Well, I’m afraid thee’s right,” said Clayton ; “but, 
if there’s any danger of that kind, we ought to be there 
to do what we can to help him through it, and the 
sooner and more quietly we get there, the better. 
Farewell.” 

“ Good-by,” said Mac Allan, shaking hands with 
him and then with his sons, one after the other. “ Now, 
boys,” said he, addressing the latter, “ you’ve all done 
well, so far ; I want to hear a good report of you from 
the capt’n, wherever you’re at work. Don’t let the 
old man hear anything about his boys that’ll make him 
feel ashamed of ’em.” 

The troop now resumed its march, halting again at 
the spring near West Chester, which I described some 
chapters back, to water their horses ; thence passing 
along a few hundred yards to the southward of the 
Turk’s Head tavern, where they did not stop, and cross- 
ing the Lancaster road about a mile east of it at the 
point now known as Gallows Hill, and then straight 
across the country, crossing Chester and Ridley Creeks, 
and threading their way through the thickly-wooded 
country, until they reached the outposts of Wayne’s 
division. The place where the force lay had been well 
chosen for concealment. It was deep in the woods, 
about two miles southwest of where the Paoli Tavern 
now stands, and was surrounded by hills. There was 
one narrow defile, the site of a disused road, which 
Clayton had marked, as he approached, as the point 
from which danger was to be looked for. Still, the 
place was so secluded that it would have been per- 
fectly secure from discovery, had it not been for one or 


200 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


more treacherous hounds living near, who knew every 
defile and ravine in the neighborhood. 

Halting his force near the outposts, Clayton rode 
forward alone until challenged by a sentinel ; waiting 
here until the latter was relieved, he went in with the 
guard to the tent of the general, to whom he announced 
his errand and offered his services. 

The latter, who had seen the conduct of the troop at 
Brandywine, and had heard of their daring foray into 
Knyphausen’s camp, — an exploit which, harebrained 
though it was, chimed exactly with his own adven- 
turous spirit, — received h ; m gladly, as a most valuable 
assistant. 

By the time their quarters had been assigned them 
and taken up, the sun was set, and the cool autumn 
twilight was coming on. The red flush had faded from 
the sky, and then the pale green shone through the 
broken cloud-masses like the distant meadows of the 
land of Beulah. Beautiful, with a most exquisite and 
tender beauty, is this pale, delicate green which 
spreads over the western sky after the sun has fairly 
sunk from view, and before the dull gray through 
which the stars first come out, has crept over it. Few 
writers seem to have noticed it, and I have rarely seen 
a landscape, except some of Paul Weber’s, in which 
the artist appears to have observed it at all. 

It faded rapidly out, and soon the camp was in dark- 
ness, except for the light of their fires, and by ten 
o’clock all was silent. 

Clayton had his own scouts on the lookout, in the 
defile he had marked, in addition to the regular sen- 
tries ; and a little after midnight, as he lay asleep with 
his head resting on the saddle, he was aroused by a 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


201 


touch on his shoulder. Springing to his feet, broad 
awake in an instant, he saw Bettle standing before him. 

“ What’s the matter?” he inquired. 

“ I’ve heard Sam Diller’s whistle twice from the 
ravine yonder,” said Bettle. “ There it is again!” said 
he, as a long, clear, powerful whistle came from the 
ravine, followed by the quick, angry bark of a watch- 
dog, as if the animal had been roused by some one 
passing. The latter noise was cut short suddenly, but 
the whistle sounded again, and then another from the 
same direction, a little to the right, and another and 
another from the left, somewhat nearer, and then all 
at once, as though a detachment of small locomotives 
had broken loose. “Off to Wayne’s quarters at once 
an(Lrouse him,” said Clayton ; “ there’s mischief afoot. 
Leave me to rouse our men.” 

While Clayton was doing this, and before Bettle had 
passed half the distance to the general’s tent, a shot 
was heard from the ravine, followed by three or four 
more in rapid succession, and the picket guards came 
running in at full speed, shouting, “ The British ! The 
British!” followed closely by a column of infantry with 
fixed bayonets. 

“Tell Wheeler to set his men and Bettle’s with the 
new hands, to saddle the horses ; take to the trees with 
carbines, thee and Wetherill, with your men,” said 
Clayton, speaking to Barton, who had joined him, in 
the sharp, rapid voice which men use when thoroughly 
in earnest, “ and pick the officers out wherever you can 
see them.” 

The order was instantly obeyed, Wheeler’s and 
Bettle’s men working rapidly but coolly among the 
horses, while the rest of the force scattered among the 


202 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


trees and opened a sharp but irregular fire upon the 
advancing column with their carbines and the rifles of 
the Mac Allans 

“ Forward ! forward !” shouted the leader, as the 
head of the column wavered for an instant ; “ are you 
going to be stopped by a dozen bush-fighters? Put 
them up with the bayonet.” 

Twenty carbines cracked from as many different trees 
in answer, dropping some three or four of the men 
nearest him, but leaving him untouched. The column 
moved steadily forward with fixed bayonets, dislodging 
the Americans, who flitted from tree to tree, sometimes 
in front, sometimes on either flank of the attacking 
party, keeping up a brisk pattering fire, which, how- 
ever, in the dim light, did but little execution. 

In the mean time the silent bayonets were doing their 
work upon the surprised and half-armed soldiers, who, 
in their panic, rushed, undressed, from their tents, in 
many instances right upon them ; many others were 
slain within the tents, pinned to the ground before 
they could rise. 

The camp was full of half-naked men rushing dis- 
tractedly hither and thither, seeking only to escape. 

So far, the affair had been little but a massacre ; but 
by this time Wayne had succeeded in rallying a few 
companies, and his voice was heard, “ Ready — aim low 
— fire !” and a storm of balls flew over the Rangers, 
who, being between Wayne’s men and the enemy, had 
thrown themselves flat upon the ground at the sound 
of the first order. Volley followed volley, telling with 
some effect upon the close columns of the British, 
though most of the balls were either lost by striking 
into the trees or diverted by grazing them. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


203 


The Rangers, while holding their successive trees as 
long as possible, had been gradually working their way 
toward their horses, which were by this time ready. 
Taking advantage of a brief lull in the firing, they 
sprang to their feet, and, darting from tree to tree, 
passed out of the line of fire, still using their carbines 
as they had opportunity, till they reached the horses and 
sprang into the saddles. At this moment the scene 
was lit up by the glare of a dozen burning tents, 
which had been fired by order of Colonel Gray, the 
commander of the assailants; and then came the cries 
of wounded men, who were perishing in them. This 
dastardly piece of ferocity had the good effect of giving 
light enough for Clayton’s troop to act on horseback to 
much better advantage. Putting his men in motion 
instantly, he charged on the enemy’s flank in solid 
column ; he succeeded in partially disordering them, 
but they rallied immediately, and he was forced to give 
back from a mass of bayonets which it would have 
been utter madness to attempt to ride down. 

The Rangers broke at once, but not in retreat nor 
confusion; and in a moment they were hovering singly 
or in groups of two or three around the advancing 
column ; in front, in rear, on either flank, these wild 
riders wheeled and circled like hawks, in and out 
among the trees, firing with deadly aim into the solid 
mass of the assailants, while volley after volley whis- 
tled harmlessly by them in their rapid and ceaseless 
evolutions. 

The new recruits, who had been employed at first in 
helping to saddle the horses, behaved quite as well as 
Clayton had dared to hope ; he had not been able as 
yet to procure carbines for them, and several of them 


204 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


had not even swords ; they all had pistols, however, 
and several had brought their fowling-pieces and rifles 
with them, when they enlisted. With such arms as 
they had, however, they were at work as busily as the 
rest, every man “on his own hook;” for there had 
been no time to drill them in Clayton’s peculiar system 
of tactics, beyond teaching them a few of the more 
common signals. 

In the mean time, Wayne, with the small body he had 
succeeded in rallying, was stubbornly holding his 
ground, and covering the flight of the other panic- 
stricken soldiers, whose officers — vainly, for the most 
part — strove to check and form them in the rear. 

The light of the burning tents, however, showed 
him how utterly hopeless was the attempt to beat off 
an enemy evidently stronger than his whole division 
had been at the beginning ; and he reluctantly ordered 
a retreat. 

It was conducted in good order at first, but soon 
became a flight, with part of the enemy following in 
hot pursuit, while the remainder amused themselves 
by bayoneting such of the Americans, scattered about 
and unarmed, as they could overtake. 

Cries for quarter were heard all around, from naked 
or wounded men, answered by, “No quarter to the 
bloody rebels !” accompanied by savage oaths and the 
thrust of bayonets, or the heavy “ thud” and the crash 
as the musket-butt came down upon some naked skull. 

The fight was over; but, while the Americans under 
Wayne retreated, Clayton accompanied them, his troop 
still harassing the enemy with the irregular but galling 
fire from their carbines, until they desisted from the 
pursuit. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


205 


The British returned toward the camp, meeting on 
the way General Smallwood coming to the assistance 
of Wayne with a detachment of raw militia, who, at 
sight of the enemy, instantly turned with alacrity and 
ran for their lives right gallantly, and with a speed 
which would have defied pursuit, had Colonel Gray 
made any ; a thing he had not the slightest inten- 
tion of doing. Passing back through what was left 
of the camp, he collected his forces, gathered up his 
wounded, and before dawn the place was left in its 
desolation ; and when the sun rose, its light shone upon 
the bodies of one hundred and fifty dead and wounded 
Americans lying there, while above the groans of the 
wounded rose the mournful voice of a soldier’s dog, 
which sat howling over the corpse of its master. 

Thus ended the “Paoli massacre,” for which General 
Wayne has been not only severely censured, but most 
bitterly slandered. He has been charged with having 
been asleep at a farm-house a mile away from the camp 
— with having never come near the field — with having 
been surprised in his tent, and with having escaped 
from the back of it and fled with his red-lined cloak 
turned inside out, around his body, passing for a 
British soldier in the darkness and amid the confusion 
of the attack! Such lies as these passed current from 
mouth to mouth, among those who knew nothing of the 
affair but by rumor. The court-martial convened by 
Washington about a month afterward, at Wayne’s re- 
quest, came to a different conclusion, after hearing the 
testimony of those who knew what they were talking 
about, and decided that “he did everything that could * 
be expected from an active, brave, and vigilant officer, 
under the orders which he then had.” 

18 


CHAPTER XV II. 


By daybreak the Rangers were within a mile of the 
right bank of the Schuylkill, on the Lancaster road. 
As soon as Colonel Gray had given up the pursuit, 
they had detached themselves from the body of fugi- 
tives — it being, as we have seen before, no part of their 
custom to accompany any main body of men in a flight 
— and ridden straight toward Philadelphia, intending 
to hover in and around the city and watch the motions 
of the enemy, who had approached fearfully near, and, 
indeed, were preparing to take possession. 

Soon after they left the main body, the three Tory 
prisoners they had brought with them suddenly oc- 
curred to Clayton, for the first time since the attack ; 
and he asked Bettle if he had seen them. 

“ No,” said the latter ; “ I never thought of the ras- 
cals,” and, riding to the rear, inquired of Frank if they 
were with the troop. 

Frank answered in the negative. 

“ When did you discover their absence?” 

“How?” 

“ When did you miss them ?” said Bettle, simplify- 
ing. 

“ Oh 1 know’d it ever since we started,” said Frank, 
who had understood the question in its previous form 
perfectly well, but had a perfect hatred of what he 
called “ booktionary talk.” 

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DANGER AHEAD ! Page 207. 








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THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


207 


“ Why didn’t you report to the captain, then?” said 
Bettle, a little sternly. 

‘‘No use,” said Frank, coolly; “nobody but the d — 1 
could ha’ caught ’em, with the start they had, even if 
there’d been time to hunt ’em. Let ’em go ; can’t do 
no harm.” 

Bettle was fain to be content with this, knowing that 
no more information would be extracted from Frank, 
and rode back to Clayton with his report. 

“It can’t be helped,” said the latter; “ but they may 
have escaped at the beginning of the attack, and, if they 
reach the city in advance of us, may meet some out- 
lying parties of the enemy and give us trouble by in- 
forming them of our movements.” 

Nothing more was said, for none of the officers were 
men to waste breath in discussing matters that were 
inevitable, and the troop rode on in silence till they 
reached the spot mentioned in the beginning of the 
chapter. 

As the day began to break, Frank and Harry had dis- 
mounted, and gone a short distance in advance to recon- 
noitre, the troop following at a walk, with their arms 
secured from rattling and jingling in the usual manner. 

They were proceeding cautiously, listening for sig- 
nals, when the two scouts suddenly appeared — I was 
going to say, breathless ; but that was a condition that 
Frank Lightfoot and Dandy Harry did not easily get 
into — and, both speaking at once, hurriedly exclaimed 
to Clayton, — 

“ Close up, close upl There’s eighty or a hundred 
British light-horse in the road, not two hundred yards 
off!” 

“ Well,” said Clayton, who at the first sight of them 


208 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


Lad silently thrown up his hand as a signal for the 
troop to halt, “ well, are they in motion V ’ 

“No,” said Harry; “they’re drawn up in the road, 
—I suspect waiting for us, — just around the second 
turn, about two hundred yards off.” 

“Did you get near enough to count them?” said 
Clayton. 

“ Yes ; but we didn’t stop to do it carefully. How- 
ever, there can’t be less than what we said ” 

“But look’e here,” interrupted Frank, “by the 
hokey ! I seen them three rascals that got oil back 
yonder among ’em.” 

“ Is thee sure of that ?” inquired Clayton. 

“ Certain ; I know ’em too well to make a mistake.” 

“ We must avoid a fight, if possible,” said Clayton; 
“ they are probably fresh, and our own men and horses 
are too tired to attempt such odds. At the same time, 
I want to reach the city if it can be done. What does 
thee advise, Levi?” he added, addressing Barton, who 
was beside him. 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to try and fight our way 
through,” said the latter, speaking rapidly. “I hear 
them in motion now — ” as the tramp of what was evi- 
dently a considerable body of horsemen, accompanied 
by the jingle of their arms, which they took no pains 
to silence, was borne past upon the fresh morning air — 
“they’re coming. If we retreat along the road, we’ll be 
overtaken and cut to pieces; we’re hemmed in by this 
swampy ground on the one side, and this thicket on the 
other ” 

“ Tbee’s right,” interrupted Clayton. “ Form across 
the road, and give them a volley as they come up, and 
then charge on them ; we may cut our way through.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


209 


The troop was at once formed in a solid column, 
filling the road from side to side, and they sat waiting 
in grim silence for the attack, with carbines unslung 
and cocked, and holsters opened ready. 

About twenty yards in advance the road turned 
somewhat sharply around a bank, and Clayton had 
ordered his men to hold their fire until enough of the 
enemy had passed the turn for the discharge to tell 
upon with full effect. 

By this time the enemy, who had been coming on in 
a sharp trot, arrived at the turn, and the next instant 
the head of the column had passed it, coming in full 
view of the Rangers. 

“Ready, now ; ready 1” said Clayton, in a low, quick 
tone, and, simultaneously 

“ Halt I” exclaimed the other leader, suddenly reining 
back his horse against the foremost rank of his men, 
and then holding a white handkerchief aloft. “ Hold, 
there ! don’t fire on us,” as he observed the carbines of 
the Rangers at their shoulders. 

Clayton, watching him closely, motioned with his 
left hand to his men not to fire, and then waited to see 
what was to grow out of this unusual way of man- 
aging a charge of cavalry. 

“ May I speak a word to you, sir?” said the leader, 
courteously, addressing Clayton, and riding forward a 
few paces alone. 

“ Certainly thee may,” said Clayton, also riding for- 
ward, until they met about half-way between their 
respective troops, his own men holding their carbines 
still cocked. “ What has thee to say to me?” 

“I suspect, from your language,” said the other, 
smiling, “that I have found the men I’m looking for. 

18 * 


210 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


You are Captain Clayton, commanding a corps of 
American Free Rangers, if I mistake not.” 

“I am,” said Clayton, quietly, though wondering to 
what all this was going to lead. 

“ Then, sir, I am happy to inform you that I have 
secured three runaway prisoners of yours, who informed 
me that I would be likely to meet you here, and who 
within the next five minutes will probably be in a state 
of profound astonishment.” 

Clayton was decidedly in that state himself at this 
moment. 

“ I see you are mystified, sir,” said the stranger. 
“My name is Allen McLane, commanding very much 
such a corps as your own, but at this moment, for 
satisfactory reasons, masquerading in British uniforms. 
Your runaways fell in with us about half an hour ago, 
and, taking us for the genuine article, at once joined 
us for protection.” 

“I see, I see,” said Clayton, laughing. “But why 
did they run the risk of coming on here, instead of 
joining the force that attacked us ?” 

“I asked them the same question,” said McLane, 
“ and they told me they did attempt to do so, but were 
not believed, and had to run for their lives with the 
rest.” 

A momentary glimpse of suspicion shot across Clay- 
ton’s mind, for he was cautious by nature and habit, 
and it occurred to him that this story might, after all, 
be only a ruse to lull suspicion until his own men 
should be entangled with the others, so as to be inca- 
pable of a combined and effectual resistance. 

“ What does thee propose to do ?” he inquired. 

“ To combine our forces,” was the prompt reply ; 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


211 


“ at any rate, to work in concert against the British, 
when they take possession of Philadelphia, as they 
will, inevitably. Nothing short of a miracle can pre- 
vent it ; they will make it their winter quarters ; and I 
intend to make it my business to keep in the neighbor- 
hood just as long as they stay there, and annoy them 
by intercepting their supplies and cutting off all who 
venture outside.” 

“ Thee is not trying to deceive me ?” said Clayton. 

“If I were really an enemy, would I have been 
likely to make this parley, with a force so much your 
superior? I see an acquaintance among your officers, 
who can tell you who I am.” 

“Who is it?” 

“ Mr. Wetherill, there ; will you be good enough to 
call him ?” 

Wetherill came forward in answer to a motion from 
Clayton, and, as he reached the spot, Captain McLane 
removed his cap and held out his hand to him, as he 
looked keenly at him, saying, — 

“Have you forgotten your old friends, Mr. Weth- 
erill ?» 

“Allen McLane 1” exclaimed Wetherill, in surprise, 
grasping his hand warmly; “ I’m glad to see thee, but 
certainly I didn’t expect to meet thee in this dress: 
thee used to be a terrible rebel.” . 

“ I’m as bad a one as ever I was,” said McLane, 
who then explained his disguise as he had done before 
to Clayton, adding, with a laugh, “and I certainly 
didn’t expect to find men that say ‘ thee and thou,’ 
with broadswords belted around their plain coats. But 
I wanted you to satisfy your captain that we are friends 
and not enemies.” 


212 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“Oh, if that’s all, I presume thee’s satisfied, Ellis?” 
said Wetherill, turning to Clayton. 

“ Perfectly,” said the latter ; “ and now I am free to 
say I’m very glad thee is not what thee seems to be, 
for I was really very uneasy about the prospect of a 
fight with thy force. My people are wearied out by a 
hard march and harder fighting this morning, and are 
in sore need of rest.” 

“We’ll soon find a place for that,” said Captain 
McLane, “ if you’ll put them in motion.” 

Wetherill accordingly went back to the troop, who 
were still standing, waiting in puzzled amazement for 
the issue of this strange conference, explained the true 
state of the case, and the whole party retraced their 
steps toward the city, crossed the Schuylkill, and then, 
striking northward, pushed rapidly toward the hills of 
the Wissahickon. 

The astonishment of the three Tories when they 
found themselves prisoners again was, to say the 
least, profound. No explanations were vouchsafed to 
them, of course, and they rode in the center of the 
Rangers, to whom they^ad been transferred, in a state 
of pitiable bewilderment, to which were added very 
uncomfortable misgivings as to the unraveling of the 
mystery. 

Now, I am not going to describe the place which the 
Rangers and their new friends occupied on the Wissa- 
hickon ; for I know, if I do, that somebody will incon- 
tinently establish an “ice-cream and other refresh- 
ments” saloon there, and somebody else will open a 
lager-beer saloon, complicated with a bowling-alley 
and three billiard-tables, and fast young men will 
drive hired horses and light wagons furiously, and get 


TEE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


213 


very drunk on bad liquors, and picnic-parties will drive 
out there in double omnibuses, with a brass band in 
the foremost. No: I’ll spare it all these abominations, 
by avoiding any description of it. 

Suffice it to say, it was among the hills, and was 
used as a rendezvous until some time after the British 
had taken possession of the city, a constant communi- 
cation being kept up with the American army, and the 
British worried by constant forays and surprises of 
stragglers and outlying parties, — enterprises in which 
the conduct of the Rangers so satisfied Captain 
McLane of the superiority of their training for their 
particular business, that he begged Clayton to take a 
portion of his own men under his command and train 
them. 

The latter chose thirty of the best riders among 
them, so as to bring his force nearly up to its original 
number, and soon had them perfectly trained and dis- 
ciplined. 

In the mean time, on the 26th of September, just 
one month after Clayton’s foray into the Hessian 
Camp at Turkey Point, Lord Cornwallis, better known 
among his own men as “ Old Corn-Cob,” had entered 
Philadelphia at the head of a detachment of British 
and Hessian grenadiers, leaving the rest of the army 
encamped at Germantown. 

They marched down Second Street to their camp, 
which was below the city, with McLane’s men hover- 
ing in their rear. Five of these, disguised as British 
cavalry, with the captain at their head, pounced upon 
a Captain Sanford* at the bridge over Dock Creek, 


* No relation to Jenny. 


214 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


and carried him and his horse off together, after having 
just missed the adjutant-general, with his papers, 
above, near Chestnut Street. 

Before the British entered the city, Congress ad- 
journed to meet at Lancaster, to which place all the 
archives were removed, and at the same time caused 
to be arrested and sent to Virginia about twenty stiff- 
necked individuals, among whom were several of the 
prominent “ Friends” who had been instrumental in 
getting up the “ Testimony” spoken of in the begin- 
ning of my narrative, — they having stubbornly refused 
to give, either by word or writing, any promise of alle- 
giance to the Continental Government. 


CHAPTER XYIII. >A 


The city was now practically in the possession of 
the enemy. Washington had moved down the Schuyl- 
kill from Potts Grove, where he had been encamped, 
to within about sixteen miles of Germantown, at which 
place the bulk of the British forces was still lying, and 
the two armies lay for some time watching each other’s 
movements. 

Howe probably supposed that when he had con- 
quered Philadelphia he had conquered the country of 
which it was the capital. If he did so, he soon dis- 
covered his mistake ; for he was in a very short time 
made acquainted — ay, and thenceforth kept acquainted, 
too — with the fact that he commanded precisely the 
area of ground which his army covered for the time, 
and not one foot beyond it. 

The prestige which the taking of the capital was to 
give to the British arms, which was so much counted 
on, amounted to just nothing at all. 

It spread no panic through the country ; it brought 
the American forces no nearer to a surrender ; Con- 
gress, when the time came, simply shifted its quarters 
first to Lancaster, and then to York; and, lo I Lancas- 
ter, and then York, became for the time the seat of 
government, and Philadelphia — simply a British en- 
campment between the Schuylkill and the Delaware I 

Nevertheless, the British encampment between the 
Schuylkill and the Delaware was not the most com- 

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216 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


fortable in the world, during the succeeding fall and 
winter. 

Their supplies were anything but plentiful, and there 
was a very inconvenient lack of fire-wood, in particular. 

True, there was no lack of willingness among the 
farmers in the vicinity to furnish everything that was 
wanted, nor anj lack of efforts to furnish them ; but a 
great deal of produce started to the city that never 
reached it, and a good many foraging parties went out 
that either came back faster than they went, or came 
not back at all ; for there were hawks up the river and 
down the river and circling everywhere around the 
outskirts, swooping down upon farmer and forager, 
snapping them up or putting them to flight, and turn- 
ing many a drove of sheep and cattle and many a 
load of grain, from their intended destination, into the 
hungry stomachs at Valley Forge. 

But I am getting on too fast for my story. None 
of the British except the detachment which accom- 
panied Cornwallis had as yet entered the city, but 
were, as I said before, at Germantown. 

On the 1st of October, Washington, who still re- 
mained encamped near Pennibecker’s Mill, was rein- 
forced by the arrival of some troops from Peekskill 
and a body of militia. At the same time, Howe was 
weakened by the absence of Cornwallis’s detachment 
in Philadelphia, and of a force which he had dispatched 
down the Delaware for the purpose of reducing Bil- 
lingsport and the forts at Red Bank and on Mud Island. 

Washington was aware of this, being kept posted as 
to all the enemy’s movements by the Irregulars, whose 
scouts were constantly hovering about their camp ; and 
he determined to give them battle. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


217 


His army was not in the best possible condition for 
service, for their ammunition was none too plentiful, 
and at least a thousand of them were barefooted, and, 
in fact, with a few exceptions, the whole army was 
pervaded by a general air of raggedness. 

It was necessary to intercept all communication 
between the British and the inhabitants of the sur- 
rounding country, in order to prevent their design 
from being betrayed ; and the Irregulars separated 
into small detachments, and scoured all the roads lead- 
ing to Germantown and the city, from the 1st till 
midnight of the 3d of the month. 

Washington had started for Chestnut Hill, in com- 
pany with the column under the command of Sullivan 
and Wayne, flanked by Conway’s division, at dark on 
the same evening, hoping to reach the place and sur- 
prise the British pickets there, before daylight. But 
the road was rough and difficult to travel, and when 
midnight came they were still miles away. 

Barton’s division of the Rangers, accompanied by 
Clayton, joined them at this point, having reconnoitred 
the road from near Chestnut Hill, and bringing with 
them a party of three countrymen whom they had 
intercepted, and reported himself to Washington. 

The prisoners were ordered to the rear while Clay- 
ton proceeded to make his report. 

“How is the road?” inquired Washington, as Clay- 
ton paused in his recital. 

“ Very rough ; worse, if possible, than it is here.” 

“Did you see any of the enemy’s patrols ?” 

“We came upon one party about three miles below, 
and chased them for a mile, but they escaped in the 
darkness by turning into the woods; we didn’t pur- 
19 


218 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


sue them any farther, being satisfied with driving them 
off the road.” 

“ I am sorry they escaped you,” said Washington ; 
“I fear they will give notice of our approach.” 

“I think not,” said Clayton. “ Hardly a night has 
passed since we came into the neighborhood, without 
some such rencontre taking place between my own men 
or Captain McLane’s, and some of the enemy’s vedettes. 
I am satisfied that they knew us, and will not suspect 
the presence of any larger force until they see it.” 

“ Where did you take the prisoners you brought 
in ?” 

“Just below, on our way hither.” 

“ Then they have had no opportunity to communicate 
with the enemy ?” 

“None whatever,” said Clayton; “ I am certain that 
those we chased were the outermost patrol; all the 
other roads are in possession of my own men or 
McLane’s. ” 

“ Do you expect to have your men together, in a 
body, in the battle ?” inquired General Wayne. 

“Certainly,” said Clayton: “they have orders to fall 
in with Pulaski’s cavalry at the first opportunity.” 

“ Then you iutend to fight under his command this 
time,” said Mad Anthony; “I was in hopes to have 
had your dare-devils with me tcftlay, to help me in 
wiping out that matter at the Paoli.” 

“ Thee may possibly have them yet,” said Clayton, 
smiling : “ we will remain with Pulaski until I think 
we can do better elsewhere. I think it likely, if thee 
should be in the part of the field where Colonel Gray 
is, thee will have a chance of such assistance as we 
can give.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


219 


“ Your men are hardly adapted, from their training, 
for field-service, I imagine, sir,” interrupted Washing- 
ton. 

“ They have been thoroughly trained for every kind 
of service,” said Clayton, “ except artillery.” 

“If your Excellency had seen them at Brandywine, 
and the way they charged in solid column on those 
scoundrels at Paoli,” said Wayne, “you would have 
no fears as to their ability for field-work.” 

But little more was said, and the army proceeded as 
silently as possible, until they reached the woods on 
Chestnut Hill at daybreak. 

As they emerged from the woods, the vanguard 
came upon one of the enemy’s outlying patrols, not 
fifty yards in advance; the latter put spurs to their 
horses and galloped down the road, hotly pursued by 
a dozen of the Rangers, with Barton at their head. 

The patrol were well mounted, of course, but they 
would have stood no chance at all with the fleet horses 
that were after them, had they not come pell-mell upon 
a party of some fifty light-horse a short distance above 
Mount Airy. 

They were so close upon them before they perceived 
them, that pursuers and pursued drew up together in 
a confused mass, within thirty feet of the light-horse, 
who had halted on hearing the clatter of hoofs*coming 
down the road. 

This confusion saved Barton and his small force ; 
for they were so mixed and entangled with the patrol 
that the larger force were afraid, at first, to. fire or 
charge on them for fear of shooting or riding down 
their friends, and they stood for a moment irresolute. 

Taking advantage of this nause, Barton gave the 


220 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


signal for retreat, and his men, wheeling their horses 
directly in their tracks, separated instantly, leaped the 
fences on each side of the road, and in a moment were 
skirring through the meadows, like moss-troopers, 
scattered, after their fashion in such cases, like a flock 
of partridges. 

A few pistols were fired after them, and the British 
were about to pursue, but their leader ordered them to 
stand fast. 

“I know those men,” said he to his lieutenant: 
“they’re Clayton’s Rangers, I know by their man- 
oeuvres; we might as well chase shadows ” 

“Back, back!” exclaimed the officer in command of 
the patrol: “the whole rebel army’s within half a mile 
of us!” 

“ The d — 1 !” exclaimed the other, in consternation. 

No more words were wasted, and the whole party 
rode back to the nearest post as fast as they could spur 
their horses, and gave the alarm. 

The Fortieth Regiment, with a battalion of light in- 
fantry which was stationed at Mount Airy, imme- 
diately formed/to receive, as they supposed, the shock 
of the whole army; their commander sending the 
patrol on to the main body, which was encamped some 
distance below, in the middle of Germantown. 

They had hardly formed, before Conway came 
sweeping down upon them in a furious attack, which 
drove them headlong into the village. 

The battle was begun ; it has been too often and too 
well described by more competent hands, to make it 
necessary for me to enter into its details, and I. shall 
have but little to say about it, except so far as relates 
to the connection of the Rangers with it. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


221 


When the retreating columns reached the head of 
the village, Colonel Musgrave, the commander, threw 
himself, with five or six companies of the Fortieth 
Regiment, into the large stone house known now, 
wherever American history is known, as “ Chew’s 
House,” and held it throughout the battle, with a stub- 
born bravery that deserves all praise. 

While the battle was raging around this temporary 
fort, General Greene had come around by the Lime- 
kiln Road, routed a battalion of light infantry and the 
Queen’s Rangers, on the right wing of the enemy, and 
was now hotly engaged with the left flank of the same 
wing, striving to enter the village. The Pennsylvania 
militia, under General Armstrong, also came down the 
Manatawny Road (now known as the Ridge Road), 
upon the left wing, commanded by Gray, which it was 
their business to attack and turn; and when they 
reached it, arriving in front of the German Chasseurs, 
on the left flank, to their imperishable glory be it said, 
they stood still, and never attacked them at all ! Where- 
upon Colonel Gray betook himself, with nearly the 
whole left wing, to the assistance of the center, which 
had its hands more than full. 

The Maryland and Jersey militia, under Smallwood 
and Forman, who were ordered to march down the 
York Road and attack the right flank of the right 
wing, executed the first half of their instructions, that 
of marching down the road, admirably, but arrived on 
the ground so late that there was nobody left for them 
to attack, the said wing having left the ground to go 
to the assistance of the center, near Chew’s house. 

He.’e was the brunt of the battle. The Rangers, in 
obedience to Clayton’s orders, had fallen in succes- 
19 * 


222 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


sively, as they came up, with Pulaski’s cavalry as a 
gathering-point. As soon as they were all together, 
Clayton led them off toward the house, having heard 
that Colonel Gray was there, and feeling a strong 
desire to make his acknowledgments to him in person 
for the affair at Paoli. 

A heavy fog had fallen early in the morning, and 
everything was thickly enveloped in it. It was so 
dense that the different divisions of the two armies 
could not see each other, and both sides were guided 
in firing by the flash of each other’s muskets. 

Guided by the incessant rattle of musketry and can- 
non, which were both playing on Chew’s house, Clay- 
ton pushed rapidly up the street toward the house, 
catching here and there dim glimpses of the battalions 
moving ghostily through the fog, along whose lines, 
ever and anon, ran the red stream of fire. Disregard- 
ing these, not looking to see whether they were friend 
or foe, Clayton held sternly on to seek Colonel Gray. 

A company of British infantry, which had become 
detached from the main body in the confusion (for 
after the first volley or two the British loaded and 
fired without regard to order, and with broken ranks), 
wheeled into the street directly in front of the Rangers 
before they saw them in the thick fog. 

They were greatly inferior in number, besides being 
on foot, and escape and resistance seemed alike hope- 
less. Nevertheless, the instant their captain saw the 
figures that loomed through the mist, distinctly enough 
to know that they were enemies, without stopping to 
see how strong they were, he ordered his men to halt, 
down front rank, and prepare to repel cavalry. The 
order was obeyed with all the marvelous promptness 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


223 


and precision with which thoroughly disciplined troops 
execute their manoeuvres, and by the time the Rangers, 
who kept on their steady gallop, neither hastening nor 
slackening their pace, had come within thirty feet of 
them, the road was blocked by a rank of men on one 
knee, with musket-butts braced against the ground and 
a line of bayonets bristling in front of them, while be- 
hind them was another rank half crouching, with arms 
presented, and behind them again another and the last 
rank, standing bolt upright, with their muskets at their 
shoulders, leveled above the heads of those in front. 

“ Stand fast, men,” Clayton heard the officer ex- 
claim ; “ stand fast ; don’t fire, till you can see their 
belts.” 

“ Halt,” said Clayton ; and, as the trained horses 
stopped at the word, planting their fore-feet out and 
throwing themselves almost on their haunches with the 
sudden check, he called, riding forward alone as he 
spoke, — 

“I should know that voice. Is that Captain Gard- 
ner ?” 

“ It is,” said a voice, as the speaker advanced toward 
him. “ Is not that Captain Clayton ?” 

“ The same,” said Clayton. “ Let us pass each other 
in peace, and seek strangers for enemies.” 

“ With the greatest pleasure,” said Gardner, “ par- 
ticularly as it depends a good deal upon your forbear- 
ance whether my handful of men passes at all.” 

“I presume it does,” said Clayton, smiling; “I 
would not willingly attack thee at all, and at present I 
owe thee a debt of kindness, for saving some of our 
friends from a gang of marauding villains, the other 
day, near Brandywine.” 


224 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“ Oh ! the women,” said Gardner, with some inter- 
est. “ Yes, I was just in time : did they reach you in 
safety ?” 

“Yes, they came in the next morning,” said Clay- 
ton. “But we must not waste time talking here,” he 
added. “ If thee will withdraw thy men, we will push 
on: let us avoid each other, if possible, during the 
battle.” 

Captain Gardner nodded, and immediately ordered 
his men to recover their arms and march ; an order 
which they obeyed with as much alacrity as amazement 
at finding themselves allowed to do so. 

At this moment an officer in the American uniform 
spurred up to where Clayton was standing. 

“ What troop is this ?” he inquired. 

“ Clayton’s Rangers,” was the answer. “ Can thee 
tell how the battle is going ?” 

“ Heaven only knows,” said the officer. “ I believe 
there are a dozen battles going on at once ; there’s no 
possibility of keeping any kind of order in this cursed 
fog. I was sent to tell General Sullivan to silence that 
battery in an orchard that lies over yonder, but I can’t 
find him. Will you undertake it?” 

“ Of course,” said Clayton, briefly. 

“Well, at them, then,” said the officer, motioning in 
the direction of the orchard. “Y hope you’ll succeed, for 
their fire’s too hot for comfort.” And away he spurred. 

Clayton immediately put his men in motion in the 
direction indicated by the officer, guided only by the 
roar of the cannon and an occasional glimpse of their 
flash, through the smoke and fog: indeed, this was all 
he could see; orchard, cannon, and soldiers were all 
invisible. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


225 


Sweeping around, so as to get out of the line of fire, 
they pushed across the intervening meadows until 
within fifty yards of the battery; halting here for a 
moment, Clayton ordered the Mac Allan boys to dis- 
mount and steal with their rifles along the orchard 
fence, in advance of the troop, as near as they could 
get without being discovered, instructing them what 
to do when they had reached the point. 

The ten young giants dismounted at once, knowing 
that their horses would keep in the ranks whether 
mounted or not. Stealing along the fence, crouching 
low, with trailed rifles, they made their way rapidly 
toward the battery, which was still in full play; while 
Sullivan’s brigade, somewhere off in the fog, was keep- 
ing up a brisk but random fire, in another direction. 

The fence had been leveled for several yards on 
each side, so as to give space for the cannon. They 
were placed on the edge of a kind of bank, along which 
the fence extended. 

Arrived at the opening in the latter, and near 
enough to see the enemy with tolerable distinctness, 
five of the party crouched in the corner of the worm 
fence, while the other five, throwing themselves flat 
upon the ground, worked their way, at some distance 
from the edge of the elevation, across the line of fire, 
but so far below its level that the balls hurtled over 
them harmlessly, and gained the other end of the open- 
ing unperceived. 

After the next discharge of the guns, as the artil- 
lerymen sprang forward to reload them, the sharp, 
almost simultaneous, crack of the Mac Allans’ rifles 
was heard, and all the men at the guns but two went 
down, and then came the rush of cavalry, and the next 


226 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


moment the wild riders poured in solid column upon 
the flank of the body which supported the battery, be- 
fore any attempt could be made to reload the guns. 

Taken by surprise, having no time to display their 
front to repel the charge, they were broken in a mo- 
ment, and the Rangers were in the midst of them. An 
attempt to form again was defeated by an unexpected 
movement of the Rangers, who — from some previously 
understood arrangement, apparently, for not a word 
was spoken — separated into four divisions, and, each 
taking a different direction, forced the disordered 
crowd apart, driving them farther and farther back. 
As each division penetrated the heart of the mass before 
it, its riders turned again, back to back, thus forming 
two fronts, each of which continued to force their ene- 
mies apart until they had been completely broken up 
into separate squads. 

Then, closing again into solid column, they attacked 
these scattered parties in detail, riding down, shoot- 
ing, sabering, in rapid succession, till all who were left 
threw down their arms and called for quarter. 

“ Where is your commanding officer?” said Clayton. 

“ 1 believe X must serve your turn for want of a bet- 
ter,” said an officer in a lieutenant’s uniform, advancing. 

“Does thee surrender?” said Clayton. 

The officer started, and, looking at Clayton for a 
moment in astonishment, ‘muttered, “George Fox 
again, as I live!” and then added, aloud, “ I can’t help 
myself, that I see. I have nothing but this to give up 
to you,” offering the hilt of his sword: “the blade 
parted company with it a minute ago in the scuffle.” 

“Keep it,” said Clayton. 

The officer bowed. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


227 


And now occurred the strangest and most contra- 
dictory of all the strange and contradictory things in 
this helter-skelter battle of Germantown. 

At this very time the British were practically de- 
feated ! General Howe had given up the battle, and 
. had given orders to rendezvous at Chester. The main 
body, overpowered in the center of the village, had 
been on the point of retreating, when Gray and Knyp- 
hausen, taking advantage of the magnanimous for- 
bearance of the Pennsylvania militia in disobeying 
their orders, and the very accommodating deliberation 
of the Maryland and New Jersey militia in coming up 
too late to be of any use, threw the whole left wing 
into the village, to the assistance of the center. This 
checked the Americans, who had before been gaining 
ground rapidly, and they were finally driven back. 
Colonel Gray then hurried to the assistance of the 
right wing, which was engaged with General Greene’s 
column. General Sullivan, with Colonel Armstrong 
and General Conway, had driven the enemy into the 
village, when they suddenly found themselves unsup- 
ported by other troops, their ammunition exhausted, and, 
dimly visible through the fog, a powerful force forming 
on their right. At that moment some one called aloud 
that they were surrounded, and the Americans, in a 
sudden panic, one of the most unmanageable disor- 
ders to which armies are subject, broke away into" a 
full retreat, tossing the victory out of their hands at 
the moment when they had only to close them upon it 
to make it secure. 

The British commander ought to have felt deeply 
his obligations to the gallant militia who didn’t attach 
his left wing; for to their disregard of their orders was 


228 


TUE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


owing, mainly, the turn of the battle. A great deal of 
precious time, however, was lost before Chew’s house, 
owing to General Knox’s opposition (which savored 
very strongly of what is known, since the Crimean 
war, as “red tape”) to leaving the house in posses- 
sion of Colonel Musgrave and following up their ad- 
vantage outside, because “ it would be unmilitary to 
leave a castle in our rear when the simple fact was 
that Colonel Musgrave could have done no harm 
while in the house, had he been only let alone, and a 
single regiment could have taken care of him had he 
attempted to sally out. 

The battle was lost. The Americans retreated 
twenty miles, carrying all their artillery with them, to 
Perkiomen Creek, leaving behind them nearly seven 
hundred dead and wounded, besides about a hundred 
reported “ missing,” some of whom were prisoners, 
and some of whom had availed themselves of this 
capital opportunity to quit soldiering and sneak off 
home. 

The loss of the British, as appeared by a torn report 
which was afterward found in a chimney-corner in 
Germantown and the fragments put together, was 
about eight hundred. Thus ended the second pitched 
battle in which the Rangers shared, in disaster and 
defeat. 


CHAPTER XIX. x 

I left the Rangers standing in the orchard, in pos- 
session of the artillery, with the troops that belonged 
to it prisoners. They did not remain, however, but 
moved off with their prisoners toward the main body 
of the Americans. 

“ Haven’t I met thee before ?” said Clayton to the 
British lieutenant, as they proceeded. “Thy face and 
voice seem familiar to me.” 

“Yes,” said the other: “we have met twice before. 
Do you recollect the officer who let you into the Hes- 
sian camp at Turkey Point, and afterward gave the 
alarm when you made the night attack on it ?” 

“ True,” said Clayton, “that was it; I remembered 
thee, but couldn’t place thee. How did thee recognize 
me ?” 

“ By your language, as soon as I heard your voice, 
and by your face, as soon as I saw it. It is not one 
to be easily forgotten.” 

This was true enough, and the Englishman, perhaps, 
had the faintest possible idea that Clayton would not 
be displeased at being told so. 

“ Are your troop all Qua — no, Friends — that’s the 
word, isn’t it ?” 

“We call ourselves Free Quakers,” said Clayton; 
“ though most of the Society prefer to be called Friends. 
All my officers, and some of the men, are of the same 
persuasion.” 


20 


( 229 ) 


230 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“ I beg your pardon,” said the officer, dryly, “ but 
has their being Quakers anything to do with making 
them fight like unchained devils ? I thought I had 
seen a good deal of desperate fighting in my time, but 
I certainly never saw a body of troops charged into 
and dissected as ours was.” 

“ I don’t know that being Quakers has anything to 
do with it,” said Clayton, smiling : “ fighting, like 
everything else, if worth doing at all, is worth doing 
well, and they have been thoroughly trained to their 
work.” 

“ Your horses fought, too, as savagely as their riders. 
It was their biting and kicking, indeed, that disordered 
* our ranks, more even than the sabers and pistols of 
your men.” 

They had by this time reached the main street of the 
village, but, while crossing it, Sullivan’s division, hav- 
ing broken, as I said before, came pell-mell up the 
street. 

The Rangers, entangled among the broken columns, 
strove in vain to extricate themselves, and were car- 
ried away in the rush and separated entirely from their 
prisoners. 

It was some time before Clayton could get his men 
out of the crowd and in column again ; but he finally 
succeeded, and, leaving the discomfited army to pursue 
its retreat, struck off across the country toward the 
rendezvous near the Wissahickon. 

When he reached it, and the roll was called, to 
seven of the names no answer was returned, and ten 
more were reported present, but wounded. 

Among the missing was Frank Lightfoot. 

“ Has any one seen him?” inquired Clayton. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


231 


11 1 saw him,” answered Dandy Harry, “just before 
that flock of frightened sheep came down on us in the 
village and threw us into confusion.” 

“ He must have got separated from us then,” said 
Clayton. 

“ If so,” said Barton, “ he is most probably taken, 
as I don’t think he would follow that herd of runaways 
any farther than he could help.”. 

“We can’t spare Frank,” said Captain McLane, who 
was present, with what was left of his own force; “we 
can’t spare Frank. We must find out what has become 
of him : if they have him prisoner, we’ll get him back, 
if we have to burn the city to do it.” 

“If they’ve got him,” said Bettle, “it will puzzle 
them to hold him long : quicksilver isn’t more slippery 
than Frank. Who’ll volunteer to go back to German- 
town and try to find him ?” 

Nearly every voice in the troop was raised at once. 

“ Softly, softly, boys,” said Bettle; “we don’t want 
to attack the army. Two or three of my own fellows 
will be enough, I suppose,” he added, addressing Clay- 
ton, “just to scour the field quietly.” 

Clayton nodded, and Bettle went on. 

“ Harry, you and Jem Woodward and Parker had 
better try it. Can you disguise yourselves so as not 
to be suspected?” 

“I have a peddler’s dress that my own brother 
wouldn’t know me in,” said Harry: “Woodward and 
Parker, here, have nothing to do but take off their belts 
and other traps, to pass for farmers.” 

“ Very well,” said Clayton: “the sooner you are off, 
the better.” 

“No doubt of that,” said Harry, going out at once, 


232 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


while Woodward and Parker, by simply laying aside 
their equipments, as Harry had suggested, were at 
once transformed into two plain young farmers, such 
as might have been drawn by curiosity to see a battle- 
field. 

In a half-hour Harry reappeared. He had certainly 
contrived to disguise himself pretty thoroughly ; he 
had on a pair of old leather breeches, polished by long 
use, strong, ribbed woolen stockings, and heavy cow- 
hide shoes ; his head was surmounted by what had 
been a cocked-hat, but of which the sides now hung 
down around his face in such a manner as to shade it 
considerably. He was ordinarily quite a good-looking 
fellow in the face, and his form was more than usually 
symmetrical; but now there was an awful squint in 
the eyes, and a suspicious- looking redness on the nose ; 
the shoulders were drooped forward and the back was 
bowed, as if with the long carrying of some kind of bur- 
den, which was now represented by the peddler’s pack, 
under which he shambled along with a knock-kneed, 
lop-sided sort of gait that was certainly as far removed 
from Harry’s usual springy movement and firm tread 
as anything that could possibly be imagined. 

Clayton absolutely did not recognize him until he 
spoke. 

“ Thee has certainly disguised thyself very effect- 
ually,” be then said; “but can thee maintain that 
squint for any length of time ?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Harry, laughing; “that’s a trick 
I learned at school. Do you think I’ll pass mus- 
ter?” 

“ No doubt of it : if I didn’t know thee after a half- 
hour’s absence, it is hardly likely thee will meet any 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


233 


one who will recognize thee. What plan has thee in 
contemplation ?” 

“Well, I want Woodward and Parker to keep with 
me till we get near Germantown, and then my plan 
is, to separate, they going over to the orchard to see 
if he’s there, while I go right into the camp with my 
pack, and try if I can find out anything among the sol- 
diers.” 

“That will do,” said Clavton. “And now you had 
better start.” 

The three men accordingly started on foot on their 
perilous errand, — perilous, because any accidental 
recognition on the part of the enemy would wind up 
their adventure with an exceedingly short turn be- 
neath the nearest tree that had a limb strong enough 
to hang them on, as spies. 

Arrived at the point intended by Harry, they sepa- 
rated, his two companions sauntering carelessly through 
the village, and thence across the meadows to the 
orchard, gaping about them as they passed among the 
sad scenes of devastation which a battle always leaves. 
As they crossed the lawn in front of Chew’s house, 
they saw enough fearful evidences of how severe had 
been the fight. Parties were already at work removing 
the wounded ; but they did not pause to look at them, 
passing on across the lawn and past the house to the 
orchard. A careful scrutiny among the bodies lying 
there, however, failed to detect any one that resembled 
the object of their search, and they finally left the place, 
and, in accordance with Harry’s parting suggestions, 
returned by a roundabout way to where the Rangers 
were posted. 

Harry, in the mean time, shambled into the lines with 
20 * 


234 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


his pack, and soon contrived to mingle with a group 
of soldiers off duty, and to get into conversation with 
them. 

“Hello there! Linkum Lankum,” said one of these, 
“don’t bring that ’ere conk o’ yourn nigh my catridge- 
box, or you’ll blow it up. Look out there, Billy, he’s 
got his swivel eye on yourn J” 

“Who keers if he is?” said Billy; “ ’tain’t got 
nothin’ but a twist o’ pigtail in it ” 

“ Which hain’t? — the conk, or the eye, or the catridge- 
box? Blow me if I know which you mean.” 

“ Doan’t ’ee be a chaffin’ th’ poor tramp,” said 
another, with a strong Devonshire accent; “coom 
here, old chap, an’ open thy pack an’ let’n see what, 
thee’s gotten.” 

“ Here ; just light my pipe first,” said the first speaker, 
thrusting a black “ dudheen” against the red nose, 
which certainly looked fiery enough for the purpose, 
and attempting at the same time to take hold of it with 
the other hand. 

In an instant the wrist was seized, bis heels flew 
up, and he lay on the broad of his back, his position 
being thus suddenly changed by a dexterous backward 
trip which Harry gave him, without raising a hand 
except to seize the fellow’s wrist. 

Furious with rage at his defeat, and the jeering 
laughter of his companions, the soldier sprang to his 
feet, and, drawing his bayonet from its sheath, rushed 
at him with a savage oath. 

Harry had, for the moment, forgotten his assumed 
character when he tripped the fellow, and it was too 
late now to mend the matter: he was in for it. How- 
ever, instead of striking his assailant, he contented 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 235 

himself with seizing his wrist as he made a blow at 
him, saying, with well-affected dismay, — 

“ Gentlemen, will you see a poor man murdered be- 
cause he didn’t want his nose pulled ?” 

“ Dom’d if we wull,” said Devonshire, a fellow as 
stout and burly as one of his own county’s short- 
horned bulls, seizing his comrade by the shoulders ; 
“ we waen’t ha’ no moor stickin’ work to-day. Oi 
toald ’ee to let un aloan. If ’ee mun foight, tak off 
un’s co-at an’ go at un loike a mon, and not loike a 
bluidy Frencher. I’ll back th’ tramp agin un for half- 
a-crow-an.” 

“A mill! a mill !” exclaimed the reckless soldiers, all 
springing to their feet. “Form a ring.” 

The battle was short. Harry, not wishing to dis- 
figure his opponent, and being anxious at the same 
time to avoid attracting the attention of any of the 
officers who might be near, brought it summarily to a 
close, after parrying one or two passes, by a left-handed 
blow on the fellow’s chest which knocked the breath 
out of his body, and the body itself clear out of the 
ring. 

“ There ! Oi toald ’ee soa,” said Devonshire. “When 
thee’s gotten thy wind agin, thee’d betther shake honds 
an’ be doon wi’ un.” 

“ Fight done, with the first man floored. That’s 
fair,” said the others, assisting the discomfited soldier 
to rise. “ Shake hands with him, Jack, and don’t bear 
malice.” 

“ I don’t bear no malice,” said the latter, as soon as 
he had recovered breath enough to speak, “an’ I hope 
you don’t,” he added, extending his hand frankly 
enough to Harry ; “I had no business to chaff you at 


236 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


first, an’ I don’t want no more o’ your left-handers, 
thank’e ; I’d as lief be kicked by a hoss.” 

Harmony being restored, together with Harry’s 
squint, which he had dispensed with during the pas- 
sage at arms, two straight eyes being none too many 
in boxing, all sat down again, and examined the con- 
tents of the pack which was spread upon the ground, 
while Harry endeavored, by cautious questions, to as- 
certain whether they knew anything of Frank. 

Not making much progress in this way, he changed 
his plan for a bolder one, and, describing Frank’s ap- 
pearance accurately, inquired of his late opponent if he 
had seen such a person since the battle. 

“ What do you want to know for?” asked the latter, 
a little suspiciously. 

“ Why, you see,” said Harry, confidentially, and 
lying dreadfully, “ I’m sorry to say, though he’s a 
rebel, he’s my brother ; and this morning, when he 
found there was to be a battle, what does he do but 
saddle his gray mare and take father’s short musket 
an’ ride off like mad afore we could stop him ? I hol- 
loed after him he’d better not try fightin’ his majesty’s 
troops that way, but he said he reckoned he could pick 
up a sword an’ pistols somewhere, and rode off, an’ I 
hai n’t seen him since.” 

“ Do’e think un’s kilt ?” inquired Devonshire. 

“ I don’t know,” said Harry, dolefully; “ I’m afeard 
so ; he’s a dreadful obstropolous fellow when he gets 
a fightin’, an’ I don’t b’lieve he’d run away to save his 
life. I wouldn’t mind givin’ a pound of pigtail I’ve 
got in my pocket to any gentleman that would help 
me to find out whether he’s dead, or wounded, or only 
took prisoner.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


237 


“ Just wait here,” said the man with whom he had 
fought, who seemed to have conceived rather a liking 
for him, “just wait here while I go over to the guard- 
house an’ see if he’s among the prisoners. But stay — 
what shall I tell him if he’s there ?” 

“ Tell him his brother Harry’s here from Wissa- 
hickon.” 

The soldier went to the guard-house, which was a 
short distance off, being one of the houses in the vil- 
lage, which had been temporarily occupied for the pur- 
pose. In a few minutes he returned, and informed 
Harry that his brother was there, sure enough a 
prisoner, but alive and unhurt. 

Could he see him ? 

Yes, the officer in command had given permission, 
and he might come over at once. 

Leaving his pack on the ground, Harry accompanied 
his quondam adversary to the place, and among the 
crowd of prisoners discovered Frank, leaning against 
the wall near the fireplace. 

“ There he is,” said he. “ May I go and speak to 
him ?” 

The soldier looked at the officer in charge, who 
merely nodded ; Harry immediately shambled across 
the room toward Frank, who, after a keen glance, ad- 
vanced a step or two to meet him. 

“ Oh, Frank, Frank 1” said Harry, in a tremulous 
voice, throwing his arms around him, and bending his 
head down on his shoulder, till he had mastered the 
laughter with which he was almost bursting, “why 
couldn’t you stay at home, instead of cornin’ out to fight 
against your lawful king ?” And, overcome by his feel- 
ings, Harry hid his face again on Frank’s neck, close 


238 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


to his ear, and whispered, rapidly, “ Look out for us ; 
we’ll be on the track.” 

It is hardly necessary to say that Frank had recog- 
nized his brother before this ; and he merely gripped 
the latter’s arm strongly, in answer to the concluding 
remark. 

After a great many words of admonition and conso- 
lation, interspersed with a good* deal of “ Oh Frank”- 
ing, and some pathetic allusions to his deserted father 
and his gray hairs, to all which Frank listened and re- 
plied — when he could edge in a reply through the tor- 
rent of words — with as sober a face as Harry’s own, 
the latter took his departure, promising to come back 
with some clothes and other matters. 

Returning to where he had left his pack, he first 
handed over the tobacco he had promised to his com- 
panion, and then drove a sharp bargain for some trin- 
kets that had taken the fancy of two or three of the 
men ; which bargain came to a disastrous close, owing 
to the fact that the price of the trinkets was two-and-. 
sixpence, while eleven pence ha’-penny was all that 
could be raised by the group. 

Harry would have distributed the trinkets among 
them, had he not feared that such unprecedented liber- 
ality might raise suspicions either of his sanity or of 
the truth of his assumed character. 

Loading his pack, therefore, he bade them good-by, 
and shambled off in the direction of the Wissahickon. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Harry made the best of his way to the rendezvous, 
and reported progress. He had been unable to ascer- 
tain when the army would remove to Philadelphia, 
and the only thing that could be done was to keep a 
sharp lookout on their movements, and be ready to act 
when the moment came. 

Scouting-parties were sent out, which hovered 
around the army continually for the next two weeks, 
carefully avoiding observation, and refraining from 
molesting any of the straggling parties which they 
might easily have cut off. 

Harry had gone back once after his first visit, with 
some clothes for Frank. These had been inspected 
before he was allowed to take them to him, to see that 
nothing which might aid in his escape was concealed 
in them. This did not trouble Harry in the least, as 
he had prepared himself for it by very carefully put- 
ting nothing of the kind about them. 

When they were restored to him, however, he made 
an awkward grasp at them and let them fall upon the 
ground. While gathering them up he contrived, un- 
perceived, to slip a short, broad dagger into one of the 
pockets, and then handed them to Frank. 

On the evening of the 18th, Clayton’s scouts brought 
in word that the army was about to move the next 
morning. The whole force, consisting of his own 

(239) 


240 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


and McLane’s men, was put in motion toward Ger- 
mantown, about an hour before daybreak. They did 
not go near the village, however, but posted them- 
selves in a wood along the road between it and Phila- 
delphia. Patiently they waited there for five mortal 
hours, receiving occasional information from their 
scouts of the preparations of the army for departure. 
At last the head of the column appeared in sight, and 
the Rangers retired deeper into the wood, leaving Jem 
Woodward, and one or two others of the most active 
men, perched in some thick trees a short distance from 
the roadside as lookouts. Column after column passed, 
regiment after regiment, in interminable succession, as 
Clayton could see from his concealment, and still no 
signal from the lookouts. 

Still the army filed along, until the rear of the last 
column had passed out of view, and still no signal. A 
moment afterward, however, Woodward slid down his 
tree, and, going to Clayton, told him that the prisoners 
were coming down the road some distance in the rear 
of the main army, under a strong escort. 

“How many?” asked Clayton. 

“Not less than three hundred, I should think,” said 
Woodward. 

“We can break that number by an unexpected 
attack,” said Clayton, calmly, “if we know where to 
attack them. Could thee recognize Frank among 
them ?” 

“No,” said Woodward, “they were too fhr off; but 
I could see that they are in two bodies, one in front, 
and the other in the rear, with the prisoners between 
them ; there is a file of light horsemen on each flank of 
the prisoners, besides.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


241 


While this conversation was going on, the escort 
were coming down the road slowly, and, though cer- 
tainly not in disorder, still, somewhat loosely, and what 
Woodward called “ squandery.” The prisoners were 
inclosed as he had said, and were marching along in a 
confused crowd, without much regard to order. 

Harry had gone over in the morning, in his ped- 
dler’s costume, but minus his pack, to accompany his 
“unfortunate brother” to the city, and the two were 
together in the crowd. As they came near the wood, 
where Harry knew their friends were concealed, the 
two men gradually, without attracting attention, placed 
themselves on the edge of the body of prisoners and 
close to the file of horsemen, on the side next the 
wood. 

The road was bordered by a tall, thick hedge, which 
ran along to the corner of the wood ; at about forty 
yards from this point there was a small gap in the 
lower part of the hedge, barely large enough to allow 
a man to pass through at the risk of a little scratching. 
As they came opposite this, Frank, whose keen eye 
had noticed this, and whose ready wit formed his plan 
on the instant, edged as close as possible to the horse 
by which he was walking, stumbled, and fell upon his 
hands directly in front of the beast ; so close, that his 
rider, to keep him from tumbling over Frank, drew him 
up with a violence that threw him upon his haunches. 
At the same instant, without rising, Frank leaped for- 
ward from all fours like a cat, pitched headforemost 
right through the gap, and then, springing to his feet, 
ran at full speed, sheltered by the hedge, for the wood. 

Two or three pistols were fired after him at random, 
and several horsemen made a rush at the hedge, but 

21 


242 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


were recalled by a sharp, stern order from the officer : 
“ Close up, there ! close up ! Look to the other pris- 
oners;” and then, riding up to Harry, was beginning, 
wrathfully, “ What does this mean, sir ? Is this any 
of your — ” when the appearance of the latter’s face — 
one eye looking at the gap through which Frank had 
disappeared so unceremoniously, and the other looking 
at himself, the under jaw dropped, and the whole coun- 
tenance divested of every expression but that of blank 
amazement — checked him, and, muttering, “lie had 
no hand in it,” he spurred forward to the head of the 
column, and detached a party in pursuit. 

These galloped along the road toward the wood, in 
order to get around the hedge, and disappeared Then 
came a crackle of rifle-shots, a sudden check in the 
regular beat of hoofs, and then four riderless horses 
came tearing down the road with dangling reins and 
flying stirrups, followed by a mounted horse whose 
rider, holding a rein in each hand, as if to steady him- 
self, was reeling and swaying in the saddle like a 
drunken man. As the horse came to the ranks, he was 
stopped, and his rider, with a last effort to preserve 
his balance, dropped his chin upon his breast and 
lurched heavily out of the saddle into the arms of two 
or three of the men who started forward to catch him. 
They laid him on a sloping bank on the opposite side 
of the road from that where Frank had escaped, 
beneath a large chestnut-tree ; but he was evidently 
dying 

“How did it happen, Hudson?” inquired the officer, 
coming up and stooping over him. 

“They’ve — hit-— me — sir,” said the man, gaspingout 
a word at a time. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


243 


“ Who?” 

“The — rebels — sir. — Woods — full of” They were 
his last words. 

“ Rebels ! In the woods ! There’s treachery here. 
Where’s that peddler ? Secure him, some of you ; I’ll 
have some talk with him after awhile.” 

The officer then hurried to the head of his men, and 
the advance pushed rapidly forward toward the corner 
of the wood. They turned the end of the hedge, and 
penetrated some distance into the wood, but met nobody 
except the remnant of the party that had pursued 
Frank ; the Rangers, after the single volley from the 
Mac Allan rifles, having fallen back, lest the report 
should draw the army upon them. 

“ Where are the rebels ?” said the officer. 

“ Back yonder, sir, in the woods,” said the man who 
was addressed ; “ they’re too strong for us, without a 
reinforcement.” 

“Well, here comes one,” said the officer, as a regi- - 
ment came down the road at quick step and halted at 
the edge of the wood. 

“ One of our prisoners escaped just now, sir,” he 
said, speaking to the colonel of the regiment, “ and the 
men sent to retake him have been fired on by a party 
of the rebels who are somewhere in the wood here.” 

“ W'e must let him go, sir,” said the colonel: “ it will 
be useless to attempt to catch these flying Irregulars, 
of whom the force must consist, while in the woods. 
How strong do you take them to be?” 

“About two hundred, sir,” said the trooper who had 
previously been speaking, in answer to a look from his 
officer. 

“Rather strong for your force, hampered with pris- 


244 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


oners. Close up your men, and I will remain with 
you until we reach Philadelphia.” 

The officer bowed, and, having formed his men in 
their original order, the whole body proceeded to- 
gether along the road. When the order was given to 
secure Harry, he was placed on horseback, under the 
charge of two troopers, one of whom was our friend 
Devonshire, with orders that he should be instantly 
shot or cut down should he attempt to escape. 

Harry submitted very meekly, and with as injured a 
look as he could assume without disturbing the usual 
engaging expression of his countenance. Scrambling 
awkwardly into the saddle, where it was a sight to see 
him with his round back, his loose-looking legs with 
feet thrust into the stirrups to the ankles, each hand, 
with the palm upward, grasping with the thumb and 
finger a rein, which hung dangling, jolting up and 
down with the motion of the horse as he moved along, 
he took his place between Devonshire and his com- 
panion, the latter being on the side of the road next the 
hedge. 

“Don’t you think it’s hard, mister,” said Harry, 
addressing Devonshire in a low voice, “to make me, 
a loyal subject, prisoner, just ’cause my rebel brother 
contrived to get away?” 

“ Whoy, yea,” said Devonshire, “ it doan’t seem 
’zactly right, ’case oi saw un all th’ toim and oi doant 
think ’ee had nowt to do wi’ un; but oi baent meanin’ 
to let un git off for a’ that. Doant think there’s much 
danger, though, the way ’ee roides — tak care, there ! 
thee’ll surely toomble off and brek thy neck,” seizing 
Harry’s arm as he manifested symptoms of slipping 
helplessly off sideways, and pulling him straight in 
the saddle. 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


245 


All the while Harry had been trying to judge by 
the feel of the horse beneath him — by his step and 
motion — of his capacity for a race, and had satisfied 
himself that he had both strength and speed. 

Deceived by his slovenly, awkward manner of rid- 
ing, and feeling sure that the first motion of his horse 
out of a slow trot would dismount him, they had neg- 
lected to secure him in any other way than that of 
merely placing him between them. He rode along dis- 
mally enough, bumping up and down with the slow 
but springy trot of the horse, till they came opposite 
the wood, which, I should have said before, was not 
fenced in, but lay open to the road, with a cart-way 
running into it. 

Suddenly Devonshire’s horse — perhaps moved there- 
unto by the instigation of a chestnut-burr which Harry 
had contrived slyly to place under the crupper of his 
saddle, in one of his own awkward lurches — first sent 
his heels into the air, and then went off into an exhi- 
bition of rearing and plunging, complicated with a net- 
work, so to speak, of fantastic capers, which not only 
gave our stout friend enough to do to keep his seat at 
all, but, by the infection which bad example is pretty 
sure to spread, set half the horses in his neighborhood 
capering also from sympathy. 

Having thus cleverly got rid of Devonshire and 
drawn off the attention of the rest, Harry took his 
next step, which was to wheel his own horse sud- 
denly, draw a short dirk, and, by a touch of its point 
in the flank, drive him with a spring full against the 
horse of the trooper who remained beside him, at the 
same time giving the man a blow with his fist which 
drove him bodily out of the saddle; for Harry, reck- 
21 * 


246 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

less as be was, rarely shed blood unless he thought it 
necessary, and therefore did not use his dirk. 

Down went the horse, and away went his rider two 
or three yards from him, before the shock and the pow- 
erful blow ; and, as the latter opened his eyes again, the 
first thing he saw was a horse’s belly, as Harry’s beast 
leaped clear over fallen horse and rider together. As 
he raised his head, he heard a voice exclaim, — 

“ By , it’s that peddler rascal ! Fire at him I 

bring him down!” 

A rattle of musketry followed, and, as the fallen 
trooper raised himself on his elbow, — he was too pru- 
dent to stand up right in the line of fire, — he thought 
at first that the fugitive had been hit; for he was 
hanging by the side of his horse, with one leg over 
the saddle and one arm over his neck, while the beast 
was flying down the cart-road. 

“After him, men! after him I” shouted the officer. 
“ Five guineas to the man that brings him in, alive or 
dead !” 

Twenty or thirty of the best-mounted troopers in- 
stantly dashed into the wood in pursuit. As soon as 
Harry perceived that he had them between him and 
the fire of the infantry, to the astonishment of his pur- 
suers, he swung himself up in his seat again, without 
checking his horse’s speed, waved his hand to them, 
exclaiming, “ Good-by, gentlemen : I’m going to see if 
I can persuade my brother back,” gave his horse an- 
other prick with the dirk (having no spurs), darted off 
the road into the thickest part of the wood, and was 
out of sight among the trees and bushes in a moment. 

They did not follow him any farther ; it was too 
evidently useless, — besides the danger of falling into 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


247 


an ambuscade of his friends, who, they felt very well 
assured, were not far off. 

They accordingly returned to the main road, and re- 
ported how they had lost him. 

“ Those are no common men,” said the officer in 
command of the escort. “Does any one know them?” 

“Please your honor,” said an old soldier, advanc- 
ing and touching his cap, “ I think I know ’em. The 
dark little chap, the one as got away first, that’s Frank 
Lightfoot his name is, was a wagon-boy in the army 
when we was cut up by the Frenchers an’ Injins out 
there at Great Meadows, by Fort Duquesne; he’s now 
among Clayton’s Rangers, an’ one o’ the best men in 
the troop.” 

“Well, who is the other?” 

“ If I’m not mistaken, it’s the only other one that’s 
equal to him. They call him Dandy Harry.” 

“ Why didn’t you tell this before ?” said the officer, 
angrily. 

“ Your honor didn’t ask me anything about it, an’ 
it wasn’t my place to push in my advice when it wasn’t 
asked. Besides, Frank was a prisoner anyhow, and I 
didn’t mistrust Harry till I seen him knock Wilson 
yonder and his horse, both down, an’ ride over ’em.” 

“Well, we’re a sharp-sighted set,” said the officer. 
“ I wonder who’ll make fools of us next time. Close 
up, forward, march 1” And so the army went to Phila- 
delphia, minus two of its prisoners. 


CHAPTER XXI. X 


“How did they take thee?” inquired Clayton of 
Frank, as they rode quietly toward their rendezvous. 

“Why, look’e here,” said Frank u I got mixed up 
with our prisoners when them fellows run through us 
there in Germantown. You know they got squandered 
away, an’ blamed if they didn’t carry me off right in 
the middle of ’em. I tried my best to git out o’ the 
muss, but couldn’t, for they were all round me, an’ 
some of ’em, I found, know’d me, an’ kep’ too sharp 
an eye on me to give me any chance. Then we come 
up with a ridg’ment, an’ they fell in with it, an’ I had 
to give it up.” 

Frank was a man of few words, and this was all the 
account he gave of his adventure. 

Harry, however, made amends at the camp-fire that 
night, by giving a full and ludicrous account of his own 
and Frank’s adventures in the British camp, and wound 
up by a descriptive ballad which he improvised for the 
occasion : it was never reduced to writing, and there- 
fore I am unable to give it. 

The season passed on without anything of note 
haying taken place in which the Rangers were imme- 
diately concerned. 

Count Donop, with twelve hundred picked Hes- 
sians, had attacked the American defenses, garrisoned 
by four hundred men, at Red Bank, in pursuance of 
General Howe’s determination to sweep away the 
( 248 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


249 


whole of the American defenses on the river, and had 
sacrificed his own life and that of some four hundred 
of his men in the vain attempt. 

The men-of-war had thundered away at Fort Mifflin, 
on the opposite side of the river, to no purpose, having 
achieved nothing but the loss of a number of men and 
of two ships, the Augusta and Merlin, which took fire 
and blew up. 

The attack had been renewed, the garrisons com- 
pelled to abandon their defenses by the overwhelming 
force which was sent against them, and the river be- 
low the city, to the ocean, was in command of the 
enemy. 

Lydia Darrah, the brave Quaker woman, had saved 
the American army from surprise and defeat, by her 
walk through the snow to Whitemarsh to give notice 
of the intended attack. 

The British had marched out in the dead of the suc- 
ceeding night, very slyly indeed, reached Whitemarsh 
unperceived, and — found the army drawn up, cannon 
mounted, and all so prepared to receive them that, 
after dancing distractedly around them for three days, 
on the fourth they scampered back, as one of their offi- 
cers expressed it, “like a parcel of fools.” 

It is a sight to be remembered, by us who can call 
it up in vision, that small, weak, sickly figure, clad in 
plain Quaker garb, urging its solitary way on foot 
through the cold December dawn, ankle-deep in the 
falling snow, to save an army from destruction. 

That woman walked, altogether, twenty-eight miles 
in the dismal weather, on that day, carrying with her, 
over the last five miles, from Frankford, a bag con- 
taining twenty-five pounds of flour, the necessity of 


250 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


procuring which had been her excuse for leaving the 
city; and General Howe had furnished her with a pass! 
I rather think it was Lydia who “made fools of us 
next time.” 

Then there was a lull in the storm of war ; the two 
great clouds had rolled asunder, and lay grumbling 
and growling at each other twenty miles apart, one 
along the hills of the Schuylkill at Valley Forge, the 
other along the shores of the Delaware at Philadel- 
phia. 

But the British, as I said before, had not a time of 
uninterrupted comfort in Philadelphia, by reason of 
the very improper and unseasonable restlessness of the 
two bodies of Irregulars who had taken upon them- 
selves to beleaguer the city. 

They caused so much annoyance by intercepting 
supplies, cutting off foraging-parties, and playing all 
manner of mad pranks generally, that the British com- 
mander got out of all patience, and at last detached 
Captain Gardner, with a considerable force, to scour 
the country and drive these pestilent marauders away. 

The captain had no trouble in fulfilling his instruc- 
tions to the letter; not the least: the only difficulty 
was that the “marauders” did not stay away, not 
seeming to understand that they were defeated. In 
fact, they led him as uneasy a dance among the rocks 
and hills of the Schuylkill and Wissahickon as David 
led King Saul over the mountains of Judea. 

He would hear of them somewhere, and sally forth 
to capture or disperse them ; when he arrived at the 
place, behold, they were gone ! By the time he had 
got comfortably over the fatigue of his march, word 
would come that they were up again in some other 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


251 


quarter, and away he would go, only to come back 
again with the same report, — “ left the place.” Now it 
was Clayton’s Hangers who were at work, now it was 
McLane’s men, now the two together, now both up at 
once in different places, till both the general and the 
captain were half distracted by the ceaseless activity 
of this intangible swarm of hornets. 

It was an easy enough matter for both Clayton and 
Captain McLane to avoid these scouring-parties when 
they chose, having always timely notice given by their 
scouts of any movement against them. 

They did not always choose to escape, however; and 
two or three sharp skirmishes among broken ground 
and trees, and from which he was obliged to retreat 
with some loss, convinced Captain Gardner not only 
that the Rangers understood their own way of fighting 
better than he did, but that he was likely to have his 
hands full at any kind of fighting. He learned to ap- 
preciate better the various and thorough training of 
Clayton’s force particularly. 

The duty he was engaged in, so far as the Rangers 
were concerned, was irksome to him, besides, from per- 
sonal reasons. His life had been spared, by Barton’s 
forbearance, at the spring below New Castle, under cir- 
cumstances which would have warranted him in taking 
it ; he had been treated with the utmost kindness while 
among the Rangers, during the few days he remained 
among them, had formed a very pleasant acquaintance 
with the officers, and had been released upon his parole 
after a very short detention. More recently, he had 
been treated with rare courtesy and consideration by 
Clayton, who, as has been stated, allowed him to pass 
with a much inferior force, when he might have cap- 
tured him with ease. 


252 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


On these accounts, the service he was performing’ 
was very unpleasant to him, and he had made two or 
three ineffectual attempts to be relieved from it and 
have some other officer employed in his place. 

While the Irregulars on the one side, and the Regu- 
lars on the other, were leading each other this kind of 
contra-danCe, the female department of the Free Qua- 
ker church were not idle ; aud their activity found vent 
— as I suppose that of most worsen who have not dis- 
covered that they have a “ mission” does, naturally — in 
needles and thread. 

On a crisp, clear afternoon in January, a party of 
them were assembled in the large parlor of a house on 
the west side of Water Street. The room looked out 
over an open lawn to the river; for the unsightly 
warehouses which now lumber the bank were not then 
in existence, and the view was unobstructed, except by 
the trunks of two or three large and now leafless trees 
which stood upon the lawn. Before it spread the 
noble river, its broad bosom sheeted with ice, bound in 
which lay the black hulls of the men-of-war, and 
beyond lay the low, beach-like Jersey shore, rising 
gradually to the northward into rolling ground as it 
receded from the water. 

The wind was high, and the leafless trees rocked 
and groaned and rattled their bare arms together in 
the blast which came shrieking from the distant ocean, 
through the moaning pines of mid-Jersey and across 
the frozen surface of the river. It was cold, bitter cold, 
and the streets were almost deserted. The Hessian 
sentry, with his musket clasped to his side by his arm, 
blew his aching fingers through his ice-fringed mus- 
tache, as he paced up and down his beat, stamping 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


253 


along as if trying what kind of sewing his Majesty’s 
contract-shoemakers had put into his brogans. The 
woodsawyer stopped as the last section of each stick 
fell from his saw-horse, and thrashed his arms across 
his breast, with a “whew !” at each blow of his heavy 
arms, as if it had knocked the breath out of him. Their 
noses, as well as those of the few passengers who were 
in the street, were each ornamented by a pendent jewel 
at the end thereof, which hung there undisturbed, for 
it was too cold to think of taking hands out of pockets 
to use either handkerchiefs or fingers. Here and there 
was a poor, thinly-clad, shivering form, stealing along 
in search of chips to make a scanty fire for other poor 
squalid little forms to cower over; for firewood was 
scarce, even for those who had means to buy it, and 
but little was left to be gleaned by those who had 
not. 

While all was thus bleak and dreary outside, the 
scene within the large room in which the women were 
assembled was bright and cheerful. True, the walls, 
instead of being covered with the wonderful specimens 
of machine-produced art with which paper-hangers so 
liberally cover walls nowadays, were painted a sober 
drab, and the ceiling was not as high by a couple of 
feet as we think it necessary to have them now ; but 
the floor was carpeted, in itself an evidence of some 
wealth, and a bright wood-fire, plentifully supplied, 
was burning in the large Franklin stove, whose brass 
mountings and those of the fender in front of it shone 
with all the luster which powdered brick-dust and 
flannel, applied with all the vigor of a sturdy house- 
maid’s arm, could produce. In front of the fender was 
spread a large bear-skin rug, on which lay a plump 
22 


I 


254 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


gray-mottled cat, evidently a privileged pet, basking 
in the heat of the fire, and purring dreamily. 

In short, the gathering was what is now called a 
“ sewing-circle,” at which, as is well known, there is 
always, nowadays, an immense amount of work done, 
with a very small amount of talk and tea- drinking. 

The party with whom I have to do at present were 
hot working, however, for the natives of Booriobhoola 
Gha ; neither were they making flannel shirts to keep 
warm the other sans-culottes gentlemen in Africa, who 
eschew all clothing except a breech-cloth and a gen- 
eral smearing over with rancid cocoanut oil ; nor were 
they working for the Greeks, nor for anybody else out 
of sight and hearing across the ocean ; for, as the 
splenetic John Randolph once told a lady who was 
commiserating the sufferings of the Greeks during their 
revolution, and lamenting that she was not among 
them to relieve them, “ Madam, the Greeks are at 
your door.” 

There was suffering enough within twenty miles, in 
the rude slab huts imbedded in the snow among the 
hills of Valley Forge, to absorb all the spare sympathy, 
as well as the spare time and money, of any given num- 
ber of philanthropists ; and it was to do what they 
could toward relieving this suffering that they were 
met together on this clear, crisp January afternoon. 

There was a sprinkling of the gayer dresses of the 
“ world’s people” among the party ; but most of them 
wore the unmistakable, plain garb of the Friends. 

Across one end of the room was spread a quilting- 
frame, on which was stretched a quilt about half fin- 
ished ; around it were about a dozen elderly ladies, who 
were busily stitching along the white chalk-lines w ith 


THE QUAKER PARTISAN’S. 


255 


which its surface was latticed. These were all stout, 
comfortable, grandmotherly-looking dames, ranging 
from fifty to sixty, well preserved, with complexions 
still fresh and ruddy, and some of them hardly more 
wrinkled than their granddaughters. 

Around a circular table which stood about the mid- 
dle of the room, in front of the fireplace, was another 
group, of younger ladies, some of them the daughters 
of those around the quilting-frame, and employed quite 
as industriously as their mothers, in cutting out and 
sewing strong coarse cotton shirts, and — some of the 
older ones — knitting heavy woolen stockings. 

At the other end were four or five girls, of perhaps 
from sixteen to twenty years of age, seated on the car- 
pet, around a flag which they had just finished embroid- 
ering and had spread out upon the carpet to admire. 
It was not large, being only about two feet square, 
but large enough for the purpose it was intended for, 
— a cavalry pennon. 

It was not a very unusual employment for a party 
of ladies in those days ; but in the present instance there 
was a curious contrast between that battle-flag, with 
its deep-blue ground and border of crimson silk and 
gold, and the plain dresses of the girls around it, from 
which every warm or bright color, every appearance 
or suggestion of ornament, had been studiously ban- 
ished. 

If the dresses were plain, however, the faces above 
them were not ; for young Quakeresses then were as 
pretty as young Quakeresses are now; and no un- 
gracefulness of dress or soberness of color can entirely 
neutralize the beauty of the delicate, regular features, 
the smooth, glossy hair, and the fresh complexions — 


256 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


when their bonnets are off. I have not a word to say 
in mitigation of the “regulation” Quaker bonnet, which 
would eclipse the face of — I won’t say Venus, for I 
consider it an insult to a modest woman to liken her 
to that Queen Light-o’-love, but of — well, say — Hebe. 

“Isn’t it beautiful, Mary?” said one of them, ad- 
dressing a girl of about twenty, who sat opposite her^ 
a tall, slender, queenly-looking blonde. “I wish Cap- 
tain Clayton was here to see it. What does thee intend 
to say when thee gives it to him ? Thee must make 
a speech, and he must make another in answer.” 

“ I’m afraid,” interposed one of the ladies at the 
table, “ that it won’t be so beautiful after it has been 
carried a year,' and gone through the battles of that 
time, daughter Sarah. Gunpowder, smoke, and bullets 
make sad work with fine clothes.” 

“Well, I hope it won^ get spoiled; don’t thee, 
Mary ?” said Sarah. 

“ No ; I hope to see it come home riddled with bullet- 
holes,” said Mary, spiritedly. 

“Mercy!” said the younger girl, raising her hands 
in affected horror, “and spoil all our beautiful work! 
I hope it won’t be Sam that carries it, for fear he 
might come home riddled too ” 

“ Sarah — Sarah Wheeler !” said one of the elderly 
ladies at the quilt, who overheard her, “thee should 
not jest on such grave subjects. If thy brother should 
be brought home wounded or dead, thee would never 
forgive thyself for this trifling.” 

Th,e girl colored under the rebuke, and said no more. 
She was a sister of Wheeler, whom I have mentioned 
several times; while the queenly-looking blonde was 
the only sister of Wetherill, and the only — something 


TIIE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


257 


else, which brought the rich blood over her transpa- 
rent face and neck when his name was mentioned — of 
Clayton. 

I am a terribly poor hand at describing love-pas- 
sages, and, having Bettle’s affair on my hands, I have 
spared myself and you the bore of following a second 
trail of this kind, step by step. In this instance, there- 
fore, I will only give results. 

Clayton and Mary Wetherill had been “engaged” 
since about a month before the flare-up in the Society 
to which they both belonged, and she was naturally 
one of the first of his friends whom he had consulted 
previous to taking the important step which had so 
changed the current of his life. 

Some of these friends had given him their opinion in 
a way that was as non-committal as a judge’s charge, 
and which might be taken either way; some had fairly 
turned their backs upon him ; but Mary Wetherill 
never faltered. 

“ Thee is right, Ellis,” she said, promptly, when he 
mentioned his “concern” to her ; “ thee is right. If it 
is the duty of Friends to side in opinion with the Con- 
gress and the army, it is their duty to side with them 
in person too. He has no right to assist by counsel 
who is not ready and willing to assist with the sword.” 

“ I knew thee would think so, Mary,” said Clayton, 
“but I wanted to hear it from thy own lips. My own 
convictions of duty in this matter are clear and decided ; 
and I shall carry them out with all the vigor of body 
and soul which my Maker has given me.” 

So they parted for the time. Clayton set to work, 
as I stated in the beginning of my narrative, to raise 
his troop, succeeding as I have already stated. 

22 * 


258 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


She had parted with him again on the morning of 
the 4th of August, an hour or two before he wheeled 
into the line of the American army opposite the State- 
House, at the head of his troop, and from that time 
had never seen him, nor, but once, heard directly from 
him, though she had heard a good deal of him in the 
flying rumors which chased each other ceaselessly 
through that busy summer and autumn. 

Her love for Clayton was fully as deep and strong 
as Jenny Sanford’s was for Bettle, but it was as dif- 
ferent as her nature was. Strong and self reliant, her 
husband must be one by whose side she could stand 
like a palm-tree by its mate ; to whom she could be 
counselor, companion, friend. 

Jenny’s nature was very different from this. Though 
about the same age as Mary, she was much younger 
in character. She was child-like, more frank and im- 
pulsive, without a touch of the pride which was a pre- 
dominant trait in Mary’s character, plain Quaker 
though she was; entirely free from anything like 
queenly dignity and reserve, but simply a tender, warm- 
hearted, lovable girl, who would cling to the man she 
loved, as the ivy clings to the strong tower, enveloping 
it gradually in its warm, ever-growing mantle. 

When the storm should sweep down the palm-tree, 
his mate would stand and wave her plumed head over 
him in grand, majestic grief. When the earthquake 
should hurl down the tower, the ivy would go down 
with him and — die. 

Such was the difference between the two girls. The 
idea of the flag had been first suggested by Sarah 
Wheeler, and had been seized upon with avidity by the 
other girls, and they had for some time been busily 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


259 


engaged at it. It was now finished, and the next thing 
was to present it. 

This was not such an easy matter, inasmuch as 
they, the donors, were cooped up in the city, without 
much chance of getting out, even if any of them had 
known where to look for the donees in their eccentric 
wanderings. 

“ Now, won’t it be too bad,” said Sarah Wheeler, 
“if, after all the trouble we’ve had, we can’t catch one 
of these Jack-o’-lanterns of Rangers to hand it to ? This 
would be such a nice time, when we are all here, to 
give it to Captain Clayton. 

“Thee should say Ellis; not captain, Sarah,” said 
her mother, reprovingly. “ I wish thee would get out 
of that way thee has of giving vain titles.” 

“ Why, mother,” interrupted Sarah, “he is a cap- 
tain, isn’t he ? And why shouldn’t I call him so ? 
Didn’t we call James Pemberton clerk of the meeting, 
because he was clerk? And why shouldn’t we call Ellis 
Clayton captain of the Rangers, when he is captain ? I 
don’t see that one is a vain title more than the other.” 

What answer her mother would have made to this 
style of argument, it is hard to say ; for at this moment 
the door opened, and in walked the subject of the dis- 
cussion, accompanied by Harry. 

“ Why, here’s the man himself,” said Sarah Wheeler, 
joyfully, springing forward, and seizing him by the 
hand. “ Come in, thou man of peace : we were just 
talking about thee.” 

“ Thee is welcome, friend Ellis,” said the mistress of 
the house, coming forward. “ Come near the fire, thee 
and thy friend : you must be cold this bitter day.” 

Clayton and his companion drew near the fire with 


2C0 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


manifest enjoyment of its heat, while Mary placed her- 
self by his side, having been the second — Sarah 
Wheeler having sprung forward ahead of her — to greet 
him. She did this pleasantly, even warmly, but still 
with an indescribable something of dignified reticence 
strongly in contrast with the frank, open demonstration 
of delight which Sarah had shown. Considering how 
long they had been separated, any one not knowing 
the actual circumstances would have reversed the 
real position of the two girls toward him. 

There was no lack of feeling on Mary’s part, as Clay- 
ton knew right well ; but that dominant pride of hers 
kept down any manifestation of it in the presence of 
others. He himself was no more demonstrative than 
she, though feeling quite as deeply ; but with him it 
was the effect of a grave, impassive temperament, to 
which a demonstrative display of any kind would have 
beeu unnatural, rather than of any effort of pride to 
keep it down. On the whole, they were admirably 
suited to each other. 

“ But what brought thee here among the Philistines, 
Captain Clayton?” said Sarah, with a slight emphasis 
on the word captain and a sly glance at her mother. 
“Ain’t thee afraid they’ll catch thee and serve thee as 
their ancestors did Samson ? If thee could only pull 
down the walls of that temple of Dagon, the Walnut 
Street Prison, and bury its high-priest Cunningham 
in the ruins, it might be ” 

“ Sarah, Sarah I” interposed her mother, holding up 
her finger reprovingly. 

“I can’t help it, mother,” said she: “when I think 
of the way our poor prisoners are treated there, I get 
out of all patience, and only wish I were a man, to 
punish the villain.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


261 


“Well,” said her mother, “ there’s no use in trying 
to bridle thy tongue. I believe thee’s incorrigible.” 

“My errand here to-day,” said Clayton, “had refer 
ence to the very place thee speaks of. Three of my own 
men were taken prisoners in that unfortunate affair at 
Germantown, and I came in to gain some tidings of 
them.” 

“Did thee succeed, Ellis?” said Mary. 

“Only too well, Mary. They are dead, — literally 
starved to death. May God forgive their murderer as 
I try to do, and show him more mercy than he ever 
showed to any who were in his power 1” 

“ I suppose we ought all to say the same thing,” 
said Sarah; “but I must say I don’t feel exactly clear 
in my own mind about it. How does thee feel?” she 
added, suddenly turning to Harry. “Does thee try to 
forgive him, too ?” 

“Oh, no,” said Harry, quietly, in his soft, musical 
voice, and shaking his head gently : 11 1 don’t forgive 
him ; and I’m afraid he’ll need a great deal of mercy if 
he ever falls into the hands of our men or Captain 
McLane’s.” 

“What would they do with him?” inquired one of 
the elderly ladies at the quilting-frame. 

“Hang him,” said Harry, placidly. 

“Hang him, eh ?” said a voice, as the door swung 
open, and three or four men in British uniform, with 
an officer at their head, strode into the room. “Then 
we had better get two of the hangmen out of the way. 
Madam,” added the officer, addressing the mistress of 
the house, “ I beg your pardon for this intrusion, but 
I am sent to apprehend a desperate rebel who is here 
in disguise. Captain Clayton, you and your com- 
panion are my prisoners.” 


CHAPTER XXII. % 


Tiie door remained opened, no one, in the general 
consternation caused by this announcement, having 
thought of shutting it, and the four soldiers stood 
abreast, between it and the two Rangers, with muskets 
presented and fixed bayonets 

“ You had better surrender quietly, gentlemen ; re- 
sistance will only involve bloodshed, which I would 
much rather spare these ladies the sight of.” 

Clayton had calmly folded his arms while the other 
was speaking, and stood, with Mary close beside him, 
looking him straight in the eyes, with perfect calmness 
and self-possession. 

The last word was on the officer’s lips, when Harry 
suddenly, without the slightest warning, sprang, with 
a leap like a panther’s, right over the bayonet of one 
of the soldiers, driving his heels against the fellow’s 
breast with tremendous force and felling him like an 
ox, and was through the door and out of sight before 
the others fully comprehended what had happened. 

The officer uttered a sudden exclamation, rather 
more terse and emphatic than he was in the habit of 
using before ladies, while his men, recovering from 
their momentary astonishment, rushed through the 
door, without waiting for orders, in the blind instinct 
of pursuit. 

At the same instant, while the officer’s attention was 
diverted, Clayton drew a pistol from his bosom, cocked 
( 262 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


263 


it, and, laying his hand with a quiet but firm gripe 
upon the officer’s shoulder, held the muzzle within an 
inch of his face, and said, in that calm, grave tone of 
his that nothing ever disturbed, — 

“ Thee labors under a mistake in calling me thy 
prisoner: I have no intention of being any one’s pris- 
oner. I don’t wish to have bloodshed here, any more 
than thee does ; and thee will therefore see the wisdom 
of requiring thy men to behave civilly and molest no 
one here. Leave thy sword where it is,” he added, as 
the officer made an attempt to seize the handle: “if 
thee attempts to draw it or move away, or if thy men” 
— who had now returned — “come beyond the door, 
thee will be carried home. Order them to halt.” 

The officer did so, perforce, and the men stopped 
just within the door, while Clayton went on in the 
same cool, unimpassioned tone : 

“Did thee suppose I was weak enough to thrust my 
head into the lion’s jaws without having the means 
at hand of breaking his teeth if he attempted to close 
them ?” 

“Indeed 1” said the officer; “and pray, sir, what 
means may you have of breaking the lion’s teeth, as 
you phrase it ?” 

“ I will show thee,” said Clayton, giving a low 
whistle. It was answered immediately from the 
grounds in the rear of the house, and the next moment 
the tramp of feet was heard in the hall, and then twenty 
of the Rangers, with Frank and Harry among them, 
armed to the teeth, poured into the parlor. 

“ Thee sees,” said Clayton. “Now order thy men to 
lay down their arms. If they stir for anything else, 
they are dead men.” 


264 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


The officer stood silent. It was quite an impressive 
tableau. He and Clayton stood in their original posi- 
tion, about the middle of the room, the latter’s hand 
still upon his shoulder, and the cocked pistol, which 
had never wavered for a moment, still poking its muz- 
zle within an inch or two of his face ; the Rangers, 
who had stationed themselves between the two men 
and the soldiers, who remained by the door, stood there 
with pistol in each hand, holding the soldiers covered 
by the leveled pistols, and almost touching the bayo- 
nets of the “presented” muskets of the latter as they 
stood stolidly waiting for orders ; the women, with the 
exception of Mary Wetherill and Sarah Wheeler, who 
kept their position near Clayton, were huddled in the 
corners, with their hands to their ears, waiting in terror 
for the explosion, which they thought, of course, was 
coming ; while the gray-mottled cat, startled from her 
doze before the fire by the fall of the soldier whom 
Harry had kicked over, still stood upon the rug, with 
her back and tail arched, spitting and swearing in 
feline language furiously. 

“Thee sees the odds against thee,” said Clayton. 

“Yes,” said the officer, through his clinched teeth, 
“ I see. I surrender, sir. Order arms” — to his men, 
who obeyed the order with pardonable alacrity “ If it 
hadn’t been for the mountebank trick of your follower 
there,” he added, glancing wrathfully at Harry, “there 
might have been a different tale.” 

“Possibly,” said Clayton; “but thee sees thee was 
mistaken in calling us prisoners. Now, I don’t wish to 
be harsh with thee, and if thee will promise me upon 
thy honor that this family shall recei^b no further 
molestation, after we leave, I will release thee and thy 
men as soon as we are clear of the city.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


265 


“I’ll promise that very willingly,” said the officer; 
“though I had no intention of molesting them at any 
rate.” 

They now prepared to take their departure. In the 
mean time, Sarah Wheeler had been nudging and 
making faces at Mary, and pointing to the flag, which 
still lay upon the floor ; but the latter shook her head. 

“Well,” said Sarah, at last, “if thee won’t, I will;” 
and, picking it up, she advanced with it toward Clay- 
ton, and handed it to him, saying, “ Now that thy little 
affair with these friends is satisfactorily settled, I’ll tell 
thee why we wanted to see thee. We want thee to 
take this piece of ‘fine clothes,’ as mother there calls it, 
to be the standard of thy troop, never to be lost, never 
to be given up, except to those who made it.” 

Clayton took the flag, and was about to reply, when 
she cut him short : 

“ There, now ! thee needn’t make a speech about it; 
we know by heart what it would be proper to say.” 

“Very well,” said Clayton; “but will thee allow me 
to give it in charge to my standard-bearer now ?” 

“ By all means,” said she. “ Who is he?” 

“ Here he stands,” said Clayton, handing the flag 
to Harry. 

“Thee will never disgrace it, I know,” said Sarah, 
turning to Harry with a bright smile and a glance 
which brought the blood to his cheek, cool young gen- 
tleman as he was. 

“ I may die with it in my hand ; it shall never leave 
me in any other way,” said he, briefly, folding it up 
and placing it in his bosom. 

At this moment Frank, who, with his habitual cau- 
tion, had been keeping a sharp lookout on the river 
23 


266 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


through the front windows, paying very little atten- 
tion to this exceedingly informal flag- presentation, came 
up to Clayton, and whispered in his ear, — 

“ Marines puttin’ off from one o’ th’ ships. Be quick.’’ 

Clayton instantly put his men in motion, gave a sin- 
gle pressure of Mary’s hand, placed his prisoners in 
front, and in another moment the whole party had 
passed out at the back of the house, leaving the in- 
mates in the utmost surprise at their sudden departure. 

When fairly out, he stopped, and said to the English- 
man, — 

“ There is a party of marines coming from one of 
the ships toward the bouse. We can fight them if 
necessary, but I don’t want to fight here; we can 
escape and carry thee and thy men with us without 
difficulty ; but I don’t wish to leave the women alone 
to meet those who are coming. Will thee promise, 
as an officer and a gentleman, that thee will remain here 
till they come, and prevent any annoyance or insult 
to those in the house, if I release thee now ?” 

The officer hesitated a moment. 

“If not,” said Clayton, calmly, “we will remain and 
fight it out ; but thee and all thy men will be the first 
victims, whoever else may fall. My object is to avoid 
strife and bloodshed here ; thee may send them after 
us if thee chooses, and they may take us, if they can. 
There is no time to lose.” 

“I promise,” said the officer, “ with that understand- 
ing. Those in the house shall not be molested; but I 
shall lead the marines directly after you, I tell you 
candidly.” 

“ Thee is at liberty,” said Clayton ; and, leaving them 
to return into the house, he moved rapidly with his 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


26 ? 


men across the grounds which opened upon Front 
Street, passed into the street, crossed it, passed through 
an alley which led off from it, thence through another 
and another, zigzagging along until they reached the 
edge of Dock Creek, where he found the rest of the 
troop waiting impatiently for them, having become 
alarmed by their delay. 

The bitter cold of the weather, as I said before, had 
almost emptied the streets of passengers ; and, having 
nothing unusual about their dress, their arms being all 
carefully hidden beneath their coats, the Rangers had 
attracted very little attention from the few they met. * 

Mounting their horses at once, they formed upon the 
bank of the creek and awaited the approach of the 
marines. The latter, who had been tracking them 
faithfully, halted as soon as they came in sight of the 
powerful force drawn up to receive them. 

1 have no fight to describe in this instance. There 
would have been, however, if the peppery old marine 
officer could have had his way; for, with a force of 
twenty-five men, all told, he at first “ pooh-poohed” the 
suggestion of the other officer that it might not be 
altogether safe or prudent, with so small a force, and 
on foot, to attack a body of eighty or ninety, admirably 
mounted, as they could see, even though they were 
“ Yankees.” 

“Why, sir,” said the marine, “do you mean to say 
that twenty-five of his Majesty’s picked men could be 
made to turn their backs on that gang of clod-hoppers, 
mounted though they are ? You must excuse me, sir, 
but I can’t conceive the possibility of such a thing.” 

“ Those are not clod-hoppers, as you call them, sir,” 
said the other, “but a band of picked men, against 


268 THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 

whom our small force would stand no more chance 
than a handful of chaff before a gale. Do you know 
that they are the men who stormed the orchard battery 
at Germantown, and tore the companies supporting it 
to fragments, as if a magazine had blown up among 
them ? We will do very well if they let us go back at 
all.” 

After some further discussion, and a good deal of 
grumbling on the part of the old marine at the dis- 
grace of his Majesty’s troops turning their backs upon 
any number of rebels, the order was given to retreat. 

It was conducted in good order, the Rangers not in- 
terfering ; for Clayton did not wish to be troubled with 
prisoners he had no convenient means of disposing of, 
and was very well satisfied to avoid a conflict in the 
city, where he might have been hemmed in : so, as soon 
as he saw the enemy fairly on their retrograde march, 
he put his troop in motion in the opposite direction, 
and made his way as rapidly as possible from the dan- 
gerous neighborhood. 

As soon as they were in the open country, Harry 
raised the flag upon his carbine, securing it between 
the ramrod and the stock, for want of a better flag-staff, 
thus diverting the attention of a few of the men who 
were inclined to grumble at having been prevented 
from attacking the marines ; which was Harry’s prin- 
cipal reason for showing it at that time. 

I cannot do justice to the rage of General Howe 
when he learned what a prize had walked into his 
grasp, and the cool manner in which it had walked out 
of it again. 


CHAPTER XXIII, 


Month after month passed on. The British were 
still in Philadelphia, leading the sober and moral life 
which armies are accustomed to lead in a garrison 
town. 

The American army still lay at Valley Forge, en- 
during with stern patience their unparalleled suffer- 
ings. Washington was occupying a little low-browed 
room in old Isaac Potts the Quaker preacher’s house, 
as his head-quarters, with a hole cut under the window- 
seat for a fire-proof safe in which to keep his private 
papers. Old Baron Steuben was there, drilling the 
barefooted troops in the snow, cheerful and lively on 
the scanty fare, in the luxury of which the officers 
shared as well as the men, — so scanty that, as the old 
baron afterward told, his cook left him, saying, by 
way of justification, that “where he had nothing on 
which to display his art, it was of no consequence who 
turned the string” (of the spit). 

The memorable and never-to-be forgotten “Battle of 
the Kegs” had been fought and won by the persistent 
and stubborn gallantry of the British, who lined the 
wharves and kept up a fire upon every stick that 
floated past, throughout the whole of a January day. 
[n the words of an old letter published in the “American 
Museum” of 1787, “Both officers and men exhibited 
23* (269) 


210 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


unparalleled skill and prowess on the occasion, while 
the citizens stood gaping as solemn witnesses of this 
dreadful scene. In truth, not a chip, stick, or drift-log 
passed by without experiencing the vigor of the British 
arms. The action began about sunrise, and would 
have terminated in favor of the British by noon, had 
not an old market-woman, in crossing the river with 
provisions, unfortunately let a keg of butter fall over- 
board ; which, as it was then ebb tide, floated down to 
the field of battle. At sight of this unexpected rein- 
forcement of the enemy, the attack was renewed with 
fresh force ; and the firing from the marine and land 
forces was beyond imagination, and so continued until 
night closed the conflict. The rebel kegs were either 
totally demolished or obliged to fly, as none of them 
have shown their heads since. It is said that his ex- 
cellency Lord Howe has dispatched a swift-sailing 
packet with an account of this signal victory to the 
Court of London. In short, Monday, the — of Janu- 
ary, will be memorable in history for the renowned 
Battle of the Kegs.” 

The Rangers still hovered around the city, pouncing 
on straggling vedettes and foraging-parties, and send- 
ing them home empty and disarmed (for they never 
troubled themselves with prisoners), or following them 
helter-skelter up to the very lines of the enemy, draw- 
ing out the guards in bootless pursuit, carrying off 
their plunder under their very noses, perambulating 
the city in disguise and picking up information of their 
plans, which they then diligently thwarted, and keep- 
ing the British in a constant fever of excitement with 
their mad pranks. But “ the pitcher that goes often 
to the well gets broken at last.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


2 T1 

One afternoon in March, Clayton’s scouts brought 
in word that a strong party was out in the neighbor- 
hood of Frankford, coming toward the city, with a 
number of cattle which they had seized. 

He immediately started to intercept them, at the 
head of Bettle’s and Wetherill’s divisions, and some 
others, amounting, altogether, to about sixty men. 
Coming up with the enemy in the Frankford road, 
about half a mile above the city, he attacked them. 
The latter, though fully as strong as his own party, 
immediately broke before the charge, and, abandoning 
their booty, retreated in confusion toward the city. 
Ordering Wetherill, with some half-dozen men, to take 
charge of the cattle and drive them to the rendezvous, 
he followed with the balance of his force in hot pursuit. 

The two parties rushed together pell-mell down the 
road, when, as they entered a kind of defile, formed by 
a deep cut, hedged in by woods on each side, a shower 
of musket-balls from the thick undergrowth of bushes 
on the edge of either steep bank poured down upon 
the Rangers like a hailstorm. At the same instant 
Clayton saw that the road was blocked up in front by 
a solid body of infantry, certainly not less than two 
hundred strong, which had opened its ranks to let the 
fugitives passthrough, and then instantly closed again. 

They were betrayed ! Not, however, by their scouts, 
who had neither seen nor suspected the presence of any 
stronger force than the escort which had been first at- 
tacked, and which had in reality only acted as a decoy 
to lead them into the trap. 

Before they had recovered from the momentary sur- 
prise of the first double volley, which had emptied 
nearly half the saddles in the troop, another storm of 


2?2 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


balls from the strong force in front swept through 
them. 

Reeling under the deadly fire, their movements ham- 
pered, in the confined space in which they were crowd- 
ed, by the bodies of fallen men and horses, disordered 
by the frantic kicking of some of the latter, which lay 
wounded and entangled among the legs of their own 
horses, the surviving Rangers wavered for a moment, 
and seemed upon the point of breaking away in a head- 
long panic. 

It was only for a moment. Restored to order by the 
calm but powerful voice of Clayton and the fiery orders 
of Bettle, the few remaining men backed their horses 
rapidly but steadily a few paces to clearer ground, 
wheeled suddenly, firing as they turned, and dashed 
up the road toward Frankford, scattering the foragers, 
who had taken advantage of the momentary pause to 
steal around to their rear, like dead leaves before a 
gale. 

Wetherill, with his half-dozen men and the cattle, 
had not got more than a quarter of a mile away, when 
the volleys were heard in quick succession. 

He ordered a halt at once ; for his practiced ear told 
him that the fire was too heavy for the party they had 
chased. 

“They’re in a trap,” said he, “as sure as — Wood- 
ward, thee has the swiftest horse. Ride for life, and 
bring up all the men ; McLane’s and all. There’s 
half an army at Clayton.” 

With these hurried words, Wetherih, leaving the 
cattle to take care of themselves, turned back toward 
the fight with his companions, while Woodward, before 
his officer had more than half finished his order, was 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


273 


skimming across the fields, over hedge and ditch and 
fence, his light-heeled mare clearing everything like a 
wild deer. 

When Clayton broke through those in his rear, a 
strong body of light-horse dashed out of the woods on 
each side of the road in pursuit. They kept to the 
fields, and continued the pursuit in this way, with the 
Rangers a little in advance, but exposed, thus, to a 
raking fire from each side. 

The latter pushed on, keeping up a sharp fire, how- 
ever, from their carbines as they ran, until the supe- 
rior speed of their horses had put them sufficiently in 
advance to give them room to turn off the road to the 
left and gain the large open meadow which lay beside 
it, crossing the front of the body of horsemen on that 
side, and bringing them between them and the others. 

Once on open ground, with room enough for the 
purpose, the Rangers scattered in their usual fashion 
when in conflict with a much superior force, thus sepa- 
rating and distracting their fire. 

The two bodies of light-horse had now united, and 
the Rangers still retreated, slowly, wheeling and cir- 
cling in their hawk-like movements, not widening the 
space between them and their enemies materially, but 
keeping nearly the same relative distance — about a 
hundred yards — never offering for an instant a sta- 
tionary mark to fire at, while nearly every ball from 
their carbines and pistols told on the solid column 
which was steadily pursuing them. 

In the mean time, the commander of the infantry at 
the defile, who had seen the Rangers in action before, 
suspecting that they would take to the fields as soon 
as possible, and make for the Wissahickon, had taken 


2 U 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


advantage of a bend in the road, pushed as rapidly as 
possible through the wood, and now emerged from it 
with his whole force a little in advance of the Rangers, 
— on their flank, I was going to say ; but they had no 
flank, properly speaking ; but in a position which was 
parallel to their general course. 

As they appeared, the Rangers, without closing 
their ranks, at a whistle from Clayton, abandoned their 
wheeling movements, and all but Clayton and Bettle, 
who remained upright in their saddles, dropping by 
the sides of their horses as Harry had done when he 
escaped, darted forward in a straight line for a couple 
of hundred yards or so, until they had left this danger 
in their rear also. 

They received a volley from the whole line as they 
passed ; but the Regulars fired high, and no damage 
appeared to have been done. 

As they slackened their pace again, a small flag ap- 
peared above a roll in the ground about a quarter of a 
mile off, and the next moment Harry appeared on the 
crest of the hill, waving the blue flag, and followed by 
the whole remaining force of the Rangers and McLane’s 
men combined. 

“ There they come,” said Bettle, turning to Clay- 
ton, beside whom he was riding. “Now we’ll — But 
what’s the matter ?” he exclaimed, interrupting him- 
self in alarm, as he saw Clayton’s face ghastly pale, 
and his hand pressed against his side. 

“I’m hit,” said Clayton; “badly, I fear; but don’t 
tell the men; I’ll stay in the saddle as long as possi- 
ble,” and then added, in an undertone, as though speak- 
ing to himself, “Oh, Mary, Mary, this will be sad 
news for thee.” He spoke with difficulty, as if the 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


275 


effort gave him pain, and said no more. Once or twice 
he swayed slightly in his seat, but immediately re- 
covered himself, and sat there sustained by the in- 
domitable spirit within him, to all appearance the 
same calm, strong man he had always been. 

By this time the others had come up and thrown 
themselves between the wreck of their companions and 
their pursuers, covering their retreat and holding the 
light-horse at bay, the infantry having been left by this 
time at a distance, which removed all apprehension of 
danger from them. 

Calling Wetherill to take his place by Clayton’s 
side, to be ready to support him if he grew too weak to 
keep his seat, Bettle spurred back to Captain McLane 
and told him the circumstances. 

“ Who’s with him ?” said McLane. 

“ Wetherill.” 

u Tell him to take half a dozen men and get Clay- 
ton away to the rendezvous as fast as possible. I’ll 
.take care of these scarlet gentlemen here.” 

Bettle hurried forward again to give the order, and 
the fight went on. 

The Americans, being now more nearly equal in 
numbers to the enemy, changed their tactics, and, form- 
ing in solid column, charged headlong upon them. By 
this time the news of Clayton’s wound had spread 
through his own troop, and, instead of dispiriting them 
as he had feared, it had only set them mad with rage. 
Pressing forward in advance of the column, in spite of 
the efforts of Bettle and the other officers to restrain 
them, they hurled themselves upon the enemy with a 
reckless fury that no discipline could withstand, driving 
back their front ranks upon those behind them in a 


2T6 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


confused, huddled-up mass, and disordering their whole 
column. 

Before they could recover, McLane with his steadier 
force was upon them, pushing the advantage thus 
gained. Their ranks disordered, those savage Ran- 
gers in the midst of them, fighting, men and horses, 
with the blind, reckless ferocity of wounded tigers, 
McLane’s iron column pressing them steadily back, 
the infantry which could have supported them out of 
reach, they broke into a disorderly flight toward the 
main body. McLane’s men stopped at once without 
pursuing, for to have followed them to the main body 
would have been running into the jaws of death ; but 
the Rangers clung to them like leeches, paying no 
attention to their officers’ repeated orders to halt, until 
Bettle seized the bridle of the foremost and backed his 
horse by main force upon the rest, with his sword- 
point at the rider’s throat. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The men in charge of Clayton hurried to the ren- 
dezvous, Wetberill and another one supporting him 
in the saddle for the last half-mile. 

When they reached the place, he dismounted, with 
their assistance, and walked between them into the 
house, where he at once lay down, overcome with 
weakness. 

The rest of the force followed as rapidly as possible, 
after they had driven back the enemy and discipline 
had been restored among the half-demented Rangers. 

There had been almost a mutiny among them before 
this could be done; and Barton had actually drawn the 
trigger of his pistol at the face of one of the men who 
attempted to force his way past him. Fortunately for 
the fellow, the pistol snapped, and, brought to his 
senses by this sharp reminder, and by observing that 
Barton had recocked it, he slunk back to his place. 

“Is there any one else who would like to disobey 
my orders ?” said Barton, slowly and sternly. “ For 
shame, men ! shall it be said that Clayton’s Rangers, 
with all their discipline, broke into mutiny as soon as 
their captain was wounded? For shame !” 

“ But, lieutenant,” said another of the men, “ we 
only wanted to revenge the captain, and all the boys 
that were murdered by them cowards awhile ago.” 

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TIIE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


“By sacrificing the balance of the troop! Do you 
know there are not less than three hundred infantry 
yonder, and that another minute would have brought 
you right among them ? We have nothing to do with 
vengeance; leave that where it belongs, — to your 
Maker. Back to your place and obey your orders, if 
you want to please the captain.” 

Order being restored, the whole party marched to- 
gether toward the Wissahickon. 

“ How did you happen to come up so early ?” said 
Bettle to Captain McLane, as they rode on together. 
“Woodward certainly hadn’t time to reach the creek 
and bring you from there, when you came up.” 

“ We were on the march,” said McLane. “ One of 
my scouts discovered the ambuscade and brought me 
word at once ; and, fearing you might fall into the trap, 
we pushed out immediately to support you. We heard 
the firing, and were coming up at full speed, when 
Woodward reached us, about half a mile from where 
we first came in sight.” 

When they arrived at the rendezvous, they found 
Clayton lying upon a rude couch, with Wetherill stand- 
ing beside him. He was quiet, and apparently free 
from suffering, but pale and exhausted. 

His eyes had been closed, but the noise of their ar- 
rival had roused him. 

Turning his head toward the door as McLane and 
Bettle entered, with a calm, grave smile, he beckoned 
the latter to him. 

“William,” he said, “the end has come: I shall 
never draw sword more.” 

“Oh, yes, you will, Captain Clayton,” said McLane, 
cheerfully. “Wait till we get you into the city, where 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


279 


you can be properly cared for, and we’ll see you in the 
saddle again in a month.” 

Clayton shook his head with the same calm, grave 
smile. 

“ I’m going to send a flag to Howe, to ask leave to 
have you taken in. You can’t have proper treatment 
here.” 

“ It is useless,” said Clayton : “ I could not bear the 
journey, and I wish no better care than my own 
wounded men have had. Let me meet death where it 
has found me, — among them.” 

“ Would thee like to see Mary ?” whispered Weth- 
erill, stooping over him. 

Clayton’s eyes brightened. 

“ It is the dearest wish I have left,” said he ; “ but 
I must give it up.” 

“ No, thee shall see her,” said Wetherill ; “ I’ll bring 
her here to-night.” 

In a few minutes more, Wetherill was on his way 
to the city with a flag. After some delay, he was ad- 
mitted within the lines', and conducted to Howe’s quar- 
ters, where he stated his errand. 

The general gave him the order, remarking, — 

“ It is not the safest time for a lady to travel ; but, if 
you choose to take the risk of falling in with any of the 
marauders who are prowling around the city, you can 
do so.” 

“ We will have to take the risk,” said Wetherill. 

“If your excellency will allow me to accompany 
them with an escort,” said an officer who was in the 
room, “ I will esteem it a special kindness. I know 
Captain Clayton personally, and would be glad to do 
him this service, as a requital of the courtesy I re- 


280 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


ceived from him and his officers when a prisoner among 
them.” 

“You may do so if you wish, Captain Gardner,” 
said Howe. “ You have hunted him faithfully, very 
much against your will, as I know : it is but fair that 
you should have the opportunity to do him a favor.” 

“ I thank your excellency,” said Captain Gardner 
(for it was our old acquaintance of the spring) : “it is 
a kindness I will remember gratefully.” 

So saying, he took Wetherill’s arm, and they left the 
house, the British captain in his gay uniform arm-in- 
arm with the Quaker lieutenant in his sober drab suit. 

In the course of half an hour more they were on 
their way to the Wissahickon, under the promised es- 
cort ; Mary, her mother, and Sarah Wheeler, whom 
Mary had requested to accompany her, in Mrs. Weth- 
erill’s carriage, and Wetherill himself and Captain 
Gardner on horseback riding beside it. 

They reached the place about midnight. 

As they approached 'the door, it was opened from 
the inside by Bettle, who had heard them coming. 
Placing his finger on his lips, he led them quietly into 
the room where Clayton was lying with his eyes closed, 
breathing heavily. 

“How does he seem?” whispered Mrs. Wetherill 
to Bettle. 

He shook his head. 

“ He’s sinking ; he has been sleeping a little at in- 
tervals until about half an hour ago, when a stupor 
seemed to come over him ” 

Captain Gardner touched Bettle on the shoulder. 

“ Excuse me,” said he, “ for interrupting you ; this 
gentleman, Mr. Lawrence,” beckoning to a gentleman 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


281 


in an army surgeon’s uniform, who had come in with 
him, “ is the surgeon of our regiment. I have brought 
him with us to see if anything can be done to save 
Captain Clayton.” 

Bettle pressed the surgeon’s hand silently, and led 
him to the rude couch on which the captain lay. 

He looked at him for a moment, felt his pulse, ap- 
plied his ear to his chest, and then turned to Bettle 
and Captain Gardner, who were watching him with 
anxious faces, and shook his head gravely. 

“Nothing can save him,” he whispered. “He is 
bleeding to death internally. Is there any wine or 
brandy at hand?” 

“I have both in the carriage,” said Mrs. Wetherill; 
“ I will bring them in.” 

Pouring out a glass of brandy, the surgeon raised 
Clayton’s head upon his arm and applied it to his lips. 
Partially aroused by the motion, and the pungent 
smell of the brandy, Clayton opened his eyes again 
and looked dreamily around him. 

“ Drink,” said the surgeon. 

Clayton obeyed, mechanically, and in a moment 
afterward, revived by the powerful stimulant, raised 
himself on his elbow and looked around him again, 
still dreamily, but with more apparent consciousness 
than before. 

“Where’s Mary?” said he: “I thought Wetherill 
brought her here.” 

Bettle silently beckoned to her, and she came forward 
and knelt by her lover. 

“ I am here, Ellis,” she said, as she bent over him, 
and, pushing back the damp locks from his forehead, 
kissed it tenderly. What cared she that others were 
24 * 


282 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


standing by? So far as any consciousness of the 
presence of others was concerned, she and Clayton 
were the only occupants of that lonely house. She 
saw nothing but the pale face that was now resting 
against her breast; she felt nothing but the faint press- 
ure of the hand in which her own was grasped ; she 
heard nothing but the low murmur of his voice as he 
strove, forgetful as ever of himself, to console her and 
strengthen her to bear the great sorrow that had come 
upon her. 

“ Has he a mother ?” asked McLane of Bettle, as 
they stood looking sadly at this spectacle. 

“No,” said Bettle: “his parents are both dead. I 
am the only relative he has living, that I know of.” 

At this moment Mary pointed to the glass which 
was standing near, with a spoonful of brandy in it. 

It was handed to her, and she put it to his lips ; he 
swallowed a little of it, and, raising his head again from 
Mary’s breast, beckoned the others to him. 

“I have not taken the sword for fame or glory,” he 
said, as they gathered, around him, “but that I might 
do my duty. I have striven to do it faithfully, as I un- 
derstood it. When I am dead, let me be buried by my 
father, if possible, without any show or parade, accord- 
ing to the custom of my people. Let such of my men 
as wish, or are permitted, attend, unarmed, and as pri- 
vate citizens. Call in Frank and Harry.” 

They came in. 

“I have sent for you,” continued Clayton, “to bid 
you farewell. We have fought our last battle together ; 
and I want to leave you a last charge. Do not attempt 
— let no one attempt— to revenge my death. Tell the 
men so; and tell them to obey their officers as well as 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


283 


they have always obeyed me. These are their cap- 
tain’s last orders. Farewell.” 

The two men each grasped their captain’s hand 
with a silent pressure, and then walked sadly away. 

Clayton ceased speaking, and his head sank back 
upon the pillow. He lay thus for some time, with' bis 
eyes closed, in silence, Mary still kneeling beside him, 
with his right hand clasped in both of hers, looking at 
the pale face in dumb, tearless agony ; while Sarah 
Wheeler bent over him, gently wiping away the cold 
damps which gathered over the forehead. 

Bettle stood close beside him, his arms locked tightly 
across his chest, and his features working convulsively 
as he watched the face of the surgeon, who, with one 
hand thrust into the breast of his coat, and the other 
on the dying man’s wrist, stood watching his counte- 
nance with the calm gravity of his profession. 

They remained*thus for some minutes, when the sur- 
geon, turning to Bettle, who was standing nearest him, 
said, in a low voice, “ It is coming!” 

There were a few of those long, deep, awful inhala- 
tions, which he who has seen never forgets ; they grew 
fainter and fainter, and at last Mary’s face, which had 
been directed fixedly toward Clayton’s, dropped upon 
his breast; the surgeon gently laid down the hand he 
held, and all that was left of Ellis Clayton lay there 
motionless and still. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


It was the third day after the death of Clayton, and 
Captain Gardner had obtained permission to have him 
brought to the city and laid beside his father, as he had 
requested. Permission was also given to his troop and 
that of McLane to attend the funeral ; and they were 
all there, — the wild, bronzed Rangers standing around 
the grave in solemn silence, with heads uncovered, as 
the body of their commander was lowered to its last 
resting-place by Frank and Harry with their lariats. 

It was a privilege the latter had asked of Wetherill, 
that their hands should be the last employed about the 
person of their captain. 

They did not withdraw the lariats, but, gathering 
togther the leaden balls with which the ends were 
armed, Harry drew the flag from his bosom, and, 
wrapping them in it, dropped it upon the breast of 
Clayton. 

The two men then stepped aside, and Bettle led 
Mary forward to the trying ordeal, which custom still 
preserves, of taking her last look into the grave. 

She shed no tears. She could not. Her face wore 
the same look of dumb, tearless agony it had shown 
when she knelt by him as he was dying. But it was 
wan and haggard; there were lines upon it that told of 
years of suffering crowded into those brief three days, 
and she shook as with deadly cold. 

( 284 ) 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


285 


Her mother then came forward, leaning upon her 
son’s arm, followed by Sarah Wheeler and her brother, 
and then by the numerous friends who had attended. 

When all had given their last look, and turned away, 
with tears flowing plentifully, and taken their depart- 
ure from the ground, Captain Gardner, who had stood 
beside Barton, stepped forward, and, taking a handful 
of earth, leaned over the grave and dropped it in. His 
example was followed by the other officers present, 
and by the troopers, one by one, as they filed past the 
grave and so marched slowly away. 

“ Your cause has lost one of its best and bravest 
men, and earth one of her great souls, in him who lies 
yonder,” said Captain Gardner to Barton, as they 
parted near the gate. 

“It may be,” said Barton. “I know that / have 
lost the best and noblest friend I ever had.” 

So saying, he bent down his head and walked 
silently after the troop. 


I have not much more to tell. The history of the 
Rangers, in their distinctive -character as an inde- 
pendent * corps, ceases here. They did not disband, 
nor did a man withdraw from the work to which they 
had devoted themselves. But with Clayton the vital 
power of the troop, in its peculiar organization, had 
departed. Barton, unquestionably the nearest like 
him in character of mind, was still far inferior to him 
in the prompt readiness to meet all emergencies, the 
unfailing self-command, the fertility of resources, and 
the iron fixedness of purpose, which were Clayton’s 
distinguishing characteristics. Fully conscious of this, 


286 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


he would not assume the responsibility of taking his 
place. After some consultations with the other officers, 
therefore, at Bettle’s suggestion, which was seconded 
by the rest, and acquiesced in cheerfully by the men 
when they found that neither Barton nor either of the 
other lieutenants would assume the command, the 
troop was placed under the command of Captain 
McLane (with the exception of Long Johnny Mac 
Allan’s boys, who, becoming a little tired of cavalry 
service, which was not their forte, attached themselves 
to Morgan’s riflemen), and remained so, acting en- 
tirely under his orders as part of his corps, so long as 
they remained before the city. Their sojourn there 
terminated with the Meschianza, that stupendous piece 
of gorgeous folly with which the British officers dis- 
graced the last month of their residence in Philadel- 
phia. I have neither time, space, nor inclination to 
describe it. It was got up mainly by Major Andre, 
whose principal forte seems to have lain in the direc- 
tion and management of private theatricals, and whose 
achievements, so far as history has recorded them, ap- 
pear to have consisted chiefly in writing doggerel 
verses in ridicule of better men than himself, scene- 
painting for the aforesaid private theatricals, sketching 
designs for ladies’ head dresses, getting up balls and 
dancing gracefully at the same, and occupying his time 
in an industrious display of these and similar small ac- 
complishments. 

I am afraid, if Arnold’s cunning in making a cat’s- 
paw of him had not brought upon him the fate which 
should have been his own, that Major Andre would 
have occupied a very different and much smaller niche 
in the world’s history than he does ; and there would 


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287 


have been one monument less in England’s Walhalla, 
Westminster Abbey. Where stands the tomb of Na- 
than Hale, among our national monuments? 

While this gigantic farce of a Meschianza was in 
what somebody calls “the full tide of successful experi- 
ment,” Captain McLane, with his whole force, armed 
with camp-kettles full of combustibles, son^ewhat after 
the fashion of Gideon of old with his pitchers and 
lamps therein, approached the line of abatis which 
extended along the Delaware south of the city, touched 
off their combustibles, fired the whole abatis, and then 
skurried off by the light to the hills of the Wissa- 
hickon, and thence leisurely to Yalley Forge; leaving 
the Neck all alive with guards, turning out at the roll 
of the drums, officers hurrying to their posts, and 
alarm-guns banging away across the peninsula from 
river to river, and raising such a clatter around the 
Wharton House that it required the most strenuous 
exertions of the officers at the fete, backed by an in- 
finite number of fibs, to persuade the ladies present that 
there was really nothing at all the matter, and that all 
this*hideous noise was only a part of the performance. 

This was the last prank that was played upon 
the British during their occupation of Philadelphia, 
McLane, as I said before, having immediately pro- 
ceeded to Yalley Forge, where he remained until the 
army marched to the city, on the 18th of June, enter- 
ing it close on the heels of the retiring enemy, — so 
close, indeed, that one of their officers, “ The Honor- 
able Cosmo Gordon,” being perhaps addicted to late 
hours, slept so late in the morning that the family on 
whom he was quartered thought it but kind to rouse 


288 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


him and tell him that “ his friends the rebels” were 
in town. 

“The Honorable Cosmo” dressed himself with mar- 
velous speed, and, after a great deal of trouble, suc- 
ceeded in hiring a boat, in which he was put across the 
river just as “ his friends the rebels” marched into the 
city. 

Philadelphia was once more in the hands of its 
rightful owners; and nothing remains now but to 
gather up the few scattered threads of my story, knot 
them together, and leave them and it in your hands. 

As soon as the American army was comfortably 
settled in the city, Bettle obtained leave of absence 
for a short time, which he improved by going straight- 
way to Brandywine. He found the Sanfords quietly 
settled in the old house, everything prosperous around 
them, all glad to see him, Jenny very manifestly so. 

Bettle had intended to surprise them, but was de- 
feated by Mike, who caught sight of him coming along 
the road, and at once left his work and burst uproar- 
iously into the house, shouting, — 

“ Whirr a-r-r-r-oo! but it’s meself’s got the news for 
yeez. He’s cornin’ ; I seen ’im wid me own two eyes 
a-comin’ along the road.” 

“ If thee can come to thy senses without too much 
trouble, and tell us who it is thee means,” said Thomas 
Sanford, “we’ll be obliged to thee.” 

“ Och, now,” said Mike, “ an’ didn’t I tell yees who 
it was ? Annyhow, it’s always puttin’ the horse be- 
fore the cart I am — no, puttin’ the cart behind the 
horse, it is — blur an’ ages I but I mane puttin’ the cart 
in the horse — tunder and turf 1 I don’t know what it 
is, only it’s Misther Bettle.” 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


289 


“ I’m glad thee’s found out at last what it is,” said 
J ohn Sanford, dryly, as they all rose from the supper- 
table at which they had been seated, and hurried to 
the door. 

In a few minutes more, Bettle was seated in the old- 
fashioned kitchen, with the family around him, with 
the exception of J ohn, w’ho had taken Roland to the 
stable, Mike having “respectfully but firmly” declined 
to go within ten feet of him. 

“I bring good news in general,” said Bettle, “but 
sad news, in one respect, to me, and I think to you 
also. We are masters of Philadelphia again ; but Clay- 
ton is dead.” 

“ Clayton dead !” said Thomas Sanford. “ That is 
sorrowful news indeed. How did he die?” 

“ In battle. We were decoyed into an ambuscade by 
a party of foragers, and the troop was almost cut to 
pieces before we could get clear ; Clayton was shot, in 
the retreat.” 

“ Did he die on the field ?” asked Jenny. 

“No,” said Bettle: “He was able to keep on his 
horse at first, and we held them at bay, with the as- 
sistance of Captain McLane, till he reached a place of 
safety. He died in a few hours afterward, however.” 

Bettle then gave a short history of all that had 
taken place since the troop left the Brandywine, occu- 
pying the rest of the evening in his narrative. 

He remained in his present quarters about ten days, 
in the course of which he visited old ’Riah Woodward, 
and delivered some messages from his three sons, con- 
cerning, among other things, the desirableness of some 
remittances of clothing, their joint stock consisting of 
two ragged coats, one horse-blanket doing duty as a 
25 


290 


TIIE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


coat, one pair of breeches in tolerable condition, two 
ditto dilapidated, one shirt and a half, and three stock- 
ings. 

He also took an opportunity of whispering to Mary 
Woodward a message from Harry, at which she tossed 
her head saucily, and said — not exactly as if she meant 
it — that he was an impudent fellow, and what business 
had he to be sending messages to her, indeed ? 

Somehow or other, nevertheless, when Bettle re- 
turned, he was charged with a message to Harry. I 
don’t know what it was; something about his impu- 
dence, probably. Be that as it may, at the close of 
the following autumn there was a wedding at the old 
miller’s house, in which the principal performers were 
Harry Darlington and Mary Woodward. 

Bettle also visited Mac Allan, w r hom he found, with 
his family, domiciled in a comfortable log house, very 
much like the old one which had been burnt, and, for 
the rest of the day, kept the old man and his family in 
a state of delight with his accounts of the doings of the 
troop, and particularly with the high praise he be- 
stowed upon the boys for their skill and daring. When 
he described the taking of the battery at Germantown, 
and told him how much of their success was owing to 
the cool and effective way in which the boys had cleared 
the ground for the charge upon the guns, the old man’s 
feelings fairly overcame his discretion, and, springing 
to his feet, he waved his huge arm over his head, and 
gave them vent in a prodigious hurrah 1 

Relieved by this, he sat down again, and listened 
quietly to the rest of the narrative, only remarking, 
when told that the boys had joined Morgan, — 

“Ay, ay 1 that’s the place for ’em ; they’re used to 


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291 


that kind o’ sarvice. I was a little dubersome about 
bow they’d git along in the stirrups ; though they’ve 
done better than I thought they would.” 

Bettle also told of the death of Olayton, but did not 
dwell much upon it ; for it was a subject on which he 
could not trust himself to speak much, as yet. 

The ten days of furlough passed all too rapidly ; but 
before they had passed by, Bettle had broached the sub- 
ject nearest his heart to Thomas and Martha Sanford. 

“ We have expected it,” said Thomas ; “ and thee 
is the one we would have chosen of all others to in- 
trust our daughter with. She is a good girl, and has 
always been a dutiful child to us; I think she will 
make a good and dutiful wife to any one she is attached 
to, as I think she is to thee. But there is no hurry” — 
(why do fathers ahvays say “there’s no hurry”? They 
didn’t think so when they wanted to be married) — “she’s 
very young yet, and while thee will have to be away 
from her so much during # this war, at any rate, wouldn’t 
it be better for her to stay at home with us ?” 

“Perhaps reason would say yes,” answered Bettle, 
“ but I don’t feel reasonable on this subject. Did thee, 
under the same circumstances ?” 

“ I don’t suppose I did,” said Thomas. “Neverthe- 
less, Martha and I waited for each other for four long 
years, and didn’t get tired of waiting, either ; did we, 
Martha?” 

“No,” said Martha, “we did not; though,” she 
added, with a quiet smile, “ one or two of thy friends 
tried to persuade me that I ought to be tired of it. No, 
William, it will do no harm to either of you to wait. 
Jenny is too young to marry yet ; thee must let us 
keep her for a year or two longer, till we see what are 


292 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


the prospects of peace. When the war is over, we will 
give her to thee. I think we can trust thy affection, I 
know we can trust Jenny’s, not to wear out by a little 
delay.” 

A momentary feeling that this talk was a little cold- 
blooded, flashed across Bettle, but he dismissed it at 
once, for he could not help feeling its prudence and 
sound judgment. He saw the force of what was said 
about his unavoidable absence from her during the war, 
and hoping, as did every one else, that it would soon be 
at an end, he acquiesced, as cheerfully as he could, in 
the decision. Had he suspected that nearly six long 
years more lay between him and his crowning happi- 
ness, I doubt if he would have been half so strongly 
impressed with the force of the arguments that were 
used. 

The furlough had expired, and Bettle returned to his 
duty. The war went on with varying success, from 
Monmouth, where humble Molly Pitcher earned for 
herself a place, in the annals of female heroism, beside 
the Maid of Saragossa, to Yorktown, where the long, 
sore struggle between might and right ended as, sooner 
or later, in God’s good providence, it always has ended, 
and always will, till the flame of His final Judgment 
shall have swept away all evil from the earth. 

The Rangers followed the war to its close, fighting 
well and faithfully, wherever their duty led them. 

In the spring of 1184, following the treaty of peace, 
Bettle and Jenny were married, and took up their 
abode in Philadelphia, where, in as short a time as 
could reasonably have been expected, Mike, who, on 
Bettle’s marriage, had installed himself as his coach- 
man, wages or no wages, might have been seen care- 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


293 


fully leading a horse to water — not Roland, he had 
been killed, poor fellow, in one of the frequent skir- 
mishes his master had been engaged in — on which was 
mounted, bare-backed, a sturdy boy of some three 
years old, with his heels kicking gleefully against the 
horse’s sides, while his fat, chubby hands were half 
buried in the mane to which he clung. 

Frank and Harry returned together to the Brandy- 
wine. The former went to his old post at Thomas 
Sanford’s, where he remained about a year, and then* 
departed for what was then known as the “back- 
woods,” not far from the scene of his first experience 
in battle, taking with him Jemima Mac Allan, and 
settled down as one of the band of hardy pioneers to 
whom our country owes so much of its early great- 
ness. 

Harry went back to the mill of ’Riah Woodward, of 
which he took charge, the old man saying he had 
worked long enough, and now meant to play. He had 
settled his sons around him, on farms of their own, 
and occupied his time, when not playing in the mill, 
with circulating around among them, giving them all, 
in turn, the benefit of his experience in their farming 
operations, and always turning to, from old habit, 
whenever any work was to be done, and doing his 
share as industriously as anybody— all in the way of 
rest and play, he said. 

The Mac Allan boys scattered through Western 
Pennsylvania and Eastern Ohio, and became mighty 

hunters of deer and “ varmint,” such as bears, panthers, 

• ' 

wild cats, etc. 

Bettle and his wife made an annual visit to the old 
homestead with their children, and never failed to 


294 


THE QUAKER PARTISANS. 


climb to the summit of old Deborah’s Rock. Year 
after year they told their children — they never tired- of 
hearing it — the story of the siege there, and how they 
had driven the Tories down the bank, and how he, by 
whose grave they stood, had lost his life to save the 
mother to whose low, sweet voice they listened. 

Mary Wetherill never married. She might have 
done so, but her first love had been given to Clayton ; 
and a nature like hers had no second love to bestow. 

• “ It cannot be,” she said to Captain Gardner, whose 
sympathy for her had ripened into strong affection. 
“ My heart is dead to all earthly love.” 

So the Palm stood on, alone in its desolation. 

Sarah Wheeler never married. She had opportuni- 
ties enough, but she said that now the country had 
obtained its independence, she didn’t see why she 
should throw away hers. 

They are all gone, now, the actors in my story. 
But the old Rock still heaves up its craggy breast be- 
side the quiet stream ; the trees still wave their leafy 
crowns around it ; the old house still looks toward it, 
across the broad, low meadows, through which the 
little stream trickles from under the rude bridge, the 
scene of.Bettle’s early reverie ; and the Brandywine 
Hills still roll off to the horizon in the same matchless 
beauty, sleeping in the sunlight, with the shadows of 
the summer clouds flitting over them. 


THE END. 


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